


The Laird and the Lad

by 27dragons, tisfan



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Amputation, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Bucky vs. a bear, English Tony Stark, Field Surgery, Hallucinations, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Insanity, Intercrural Sex, Kidnapping, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Scottish Bucky Barnes, Scottish vs English, Sex, background/minor Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, but that's about all we've got for historical accuracy, inaccuracy all over the place, or any other kind of accuracy tbh, or scientific accuracy, there really was a Clan Buchanan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2019-11-15 21:39:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 71,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18081374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27dragons/pseuds/27dragons, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: Bucky, heir to the Scottish Duke of Buchanan, is betrothed to Tony, the son of a wealthy English industrialist. Despite tension between their countries, the boys are instantly taken with one another, and strike up a fond friendship and lively correspondence. They’re only able to meet in person a handful of times, but both are eagerly looking forward to the day when Tony is old enough to wed and can make the journey north to join his husband-to-be at Castle Buchanan.Which makes it all the more upsetting when Tony turns seventeen and Bucky doesn’t send for him, and Tony’s letters go unanswered. Tony is left to wait, alone, and wonder what’s become of his betrothed.Imprisoned by Hydra, a band of Scottish rebels, Bucky’s every breath is a struggle for mere survival. It’s a good thing Tony’s there to help him through.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNINGS:** While we don't think the Major Archive Warnings apply, we don't want to offend or disturb any of our readers, so we'd like to let you know in advance that in addition to our usual level of smuttiness, there are also several scenes in this story that will be tagged for gore -- mostly due to injuries and emergency/field surgery, not from direct violence, and the worst of it gets a fade-out on the scene, but it's there. There's also one scene where smuts _almost_ happen while Tony is underage, but it stops before they get much farther than some heated making out.
> 
> We will post warnings at the beginning of chapters that contain any or all of these things. If you want some more details before reading, you're always welcome to ask us! (Find us on tumblr, pillowfort, or discord!)

“James Barnes, stop fidgeting,” his father said, cuffing him on the shoulder. Which did not lend itself to keeping Bucky still. He did, however, in deference to his stinging arm, try to _less obviously_ climb out of the carriage window. The carriage was hot and stuffy, and the air was humid. Did it never stop raining in England?

It was supposed to be wetter in the highlands, Bucky knew, but it seemed like they hadn’t seen the sun in days, and he was going to grow mold, that’s what was going to happen.

Finally the long road had turned to cobble and they were in the city.

“Stop staring,” his father said, but Bucky was spared a second blow. “You want people to think you’re a rube?”

Wise beyond his years, Bucky did not point out that he was, in fact, a rube. It was his first visit to a city of any size, and London was many times larger than the village near Buchanan Castle. But Father didn’t approve of the city, and he didn’t approve of England, or the English, or the lords and ladies that lived there.

Which was why Bucky was confused as to why his parents had decided that engaging him to a London lad was a good plan.

Bucky was eager to meet his future spouse, someone he could talk to and play games with, maybe take fishing and show him the loch. His father said Bucky was getting too old for games and nonsense, that he had to be training to take on the Clan and the castle. But surely he’d be allowed time off to spend with his betrothed.

“Here we are, guv,” the coach driver said. The driver was Irish -- Bucky’s father had rolled his eyes about that, too. Always the rivalry between the Scots and the Irish. Which was why, Bucky had thought, that they were no match for the English, with their guns and their canons, but whenever he’d voiced that opinion, his tutor had tanned him for it.

The Stark mansion was… enormous.

And rather ugly. It looked like nothing more than an enormous brick -- and the color of one, too, except Bucky couldn’t see any cement holding it together, the whole thing was smooth and dull reddish -- with windows stuck in very even, monotonous rows. Six windows up, and five across.

And they were all curtained over.

What was the point of having so much glass if you were never going to look at the sun?

Behind the house was a good-sized carriage house and another, smallish outbuilding with a thick chimney that was pumping a great deal of black smoke into the sky.

“Come on then,” Bucky’s father said, practically grabbing Bucky by the ear and hauling him out the carriage. “Let’s get this nonsense over with.”

Bucky rubbed his ear, glaring at his father (carefully, behind Father’s back where it wouldn’t be seen). “If it’s such nonsense, why are we doing it?”

“Need the money, and you’re all we’ve got for sale.”

Bucky bit his lip and didn’t say anything else. That… that was a horrible thought. They were selling him into marriage? Bucky thought he would get a mate about his own age, but--

A white-haired old man opened the door as they made their way up the walk. If there was such a thing as an absolutely expressionless face, that man had it. Bucky couldn’t tell if they were expected, or a surprise. If the man was glad to see them, or unhappy. Or anything. Blank slate.

“Lord Barnes,” the old man said formally, and stepped aside, ushering them in. “And young Master Barnes,” he added, nodding to Bucky. “Mister Stark is just wrapping up a business meeting. I’m the head butler, Jarvis. He’s asked me to see you situated in the blue parlor and to make you comfortable. May I offer tea?”

Bucky craned his neck, trying to spot his potential spouse, or any brothers or sisters. Bucky was quite certain that if the deal had gone the other way, with the potential coming up to Castle Buchanan, that all four of his sisters would have been lining the corridor leading up to the main hall, and giggling fit to bust. He saw no one.

“ _Tea_?” Bucky’s father asked, like the drink was offensive somehow.

Bucky had heard about English tea. His ma had waxed on about it. Tea meant more than just a drink, it was sweets and shortbread and sandwiches with the crusts trimmed off and cheeses and fruits. He stared up at his father, willing him to agree that tea would be welcome.

“I can offer other refreshment as well, if tea is not to your liking,” the old man said, apparently unconcerned about Father’s indignation. He opened a pair of doors onto a posh-looking sitting room, the wallpaper painted with chains of blue forget-me-nots. “Please, make yourselves at home. Mr. Stark will be with you shortly.” He paused. “If the young master would care to amuse himself with Master Stark, while you discuss the arrangements, your Lordship, I should be happy to show him the way.”

Bucky immediately turned to his father. “I believe I would like that very much,” he said, striving for polite, because Ma had been trying to get manners into his head for a while now. He watched as his father attempted to decide if things would go easier, or not, if Bucky was around for whatever _discussion_ Father needed to have with Mr. Stark.

It wasn’t like Bucky got a say in it, so having him in the room was probably pointless, unless Mr. Stark wanted some proof that Bucky had all his teeth, like some kind of thoroughbred horse.

Finally, he got a gruff, “Do as you like, then, boy,” from Father. Bucky tried not to look too obviously pleased as he followed the old butler.

As soon as Mr. Jarvis was out of sight of the parlor, Bucky said, “Excuse me, sir? Would-- do you think Master Stark would be interested in tea? I could bring a tray with me, it wouldn’t be no trouble.” Bucky was _starving_. They’d been in the coach for hours with little but a breakfast to tide them over.

Mr. Jarvis actually smiled, then. “I think that might be a good idea. Master Stark may have missed his luncheon. We’ll stop in the kitchen on our way.”

The tea tray was enormous; the cook, Mrs. Jarvis, Bucky was told, tea with plenty of sugar and milk, a huge plate full of sandwiches and another of biscuits. There was more than enough lunch there for Bucky and three of his friends from back at the Castle. They barely ate this well on Christmas Sunday.

Bucky hitched in a breath. Which was why he was getting engaged in the first place.

“Thank you very much, ma’am,” Bucky said, and then put some effort into lifting the tray.

The house was huge, too, and Bucky lost track of the rooms Mr. Jarvis lead him through until-- they were out the back door, overlooking a well-kept lawn, the coaching house, and...

“The smithy,” Mr. Jarvis said. “I believe you will find the young master within.”

“Oh,” Bucky said. He stared at the silver tray, and then at the squat, dirty looking building. For a long moment, he didn’t know what to do. The blacksmith up at the Castle was a grizzled old man, nearly fifty. But Mr. Jarvis had said young, right?

He took a few tentative steps and then a few more. Balancing the tray while he struggled with the door was a challenge, and then he was squinting into the darkness. “Hello?”

A loud clattering noise preceded a slightly panicked, “Who’s there? I’m not making a mess, promise!” in a youthful, high-pitched voice.

“I… uh… how are you _not_ making a mess?” Bucky wondered. The whole place was absolutely filthy. Bucky’s Ma would have chest pains at the very sight. He found a slightly battered table to put the tray down on. “Are you… Master Stark?” Bucky couldn’t see anyone. The light inside the smithy was very dim, sort of orange, and the room seemed strangely dark aside from the huge fire on one side.

A boy came out from behind a shelf of tools. He was younger than Bucky -- he only came up to Bucky’s shoulder -- though exactly what age was difficult to guess through all the soot smeared on his face. He stared at Bucky in surprise. “No one but Jarvis calls me Master Stark,” he said. “I’m Tony. Who are you?”

Bucky raised himself up to his full height. “James Barnes, Clan Buchanan. Uh… if things go well --” or maybe badly, Bucky still hadn’t decided, but he was going to try to be positive about it. This boy wasn’t the one making decisions either. “-- I might be your betrothed. Do you know, you’ve got… dirt. Just… there?”

Tony rubbed at the spot and only succeeded in smearing it. “Likely,” he admitted. “I’ll scrub my face and hands in the pond before I go in to supper.” He cocked his head, studying Bucky. “You’re the one I’m meant to marry?”

Food always made bad things better. “You hungry? Mr. Jarvis sent out a tray. Tea an’ sandwiches and all kinds of good things.” He poured them both a cup of tea -- the tea cups were so thin that Bucky was terrified just picking the thing up was going to break it -- and offered one of the cups to Mast-- er, Tony.

Tony took it without any apparent concern for its delicacy and gulped down several swallows. “That’s good; I was thirsty. What kind of sandwiches did Ana make us?” He peered curiously at the tray. “Oh, cucumber and cheese!” He picked one up and stuffed it whole into his mouth, heedless of the state of his hands.

Bucky didn’t even bother with figuring out which sandwiches were which. He’d never seen bread like this in his life, all fluffy and white, like a snowflake. He took a bite -- pickle, maybe, and butter? Crunchy and sweet and gone too quickly. The boys made short work of the sandwiches, and then the biscuits, and Bucky was pouring out the last of the tea when he noticed that Tony was staring at him. “What?”

“Can you keep a secret?” Tony’s eyes were very big in the dim smithy, and very serious.

Bucky considered it for a long while. He had been asked to keep a few secrets before, like not telling Ma when he’d seen Becca, his oldest sister, kissing the Proctor boy at the Mayday fair. But nobody really cared about that. No one ever asked Bucky if he had any secrets, and even if Bucky had, there wasn’t much of anyone to share them with. “I think so,” he said. “Do I have to swear?”

Tony seemed to think about that for a moment, then shook his head. “Just promise not to tell Father. He doesn’t like it when I waste my time on nonsense.”

“Is it a fun sort of nonsense?” Bucky could understand that much, at least. His own father wanted him at his studies all the time, not climbing trees or fishing or stealing apples from the orchard down the way, or playing soldier with Steve and some of the other boys around the Castle. “I won’t tell.”

Tony grinned, then and beckoned Bucky to follow him around the shelf. On that side, there was a table, set near the fire, and a stool. More tools were scattered across the table, and in the front was... some sort of animal, made of metal. “I’ve just finished him today,” Tony said proudly.

Bucky scrunched down, getting his chin level with the-- dog? Sheep? Hard to tell. “What-- you made this? Are you, like, an artist?” Bucky knew a few of those. Steve had been apprenticed to an artist until the man was killed in a bandit attack. Now Steve was working for the apothecary and kind of hated it. And they had a tapestry weaver who worked for the Clan, putting together all the woven crests. There were a couple of statues in the Castle, but Bucky had never seen a piece of art made from _metal_ before.

Tony giggled. “No, silly. He’s a _clockwork_. Watch!” He found a little button on the creature’s back that looked like it might have once been part of a pocketwatch and turned it several times. When he released it, the little thing opened and closed its mouth twice, then took a couple of slightly shaky steps forward, and then sat down on its haunches. After a couple of seconds, it stood up again and started the process over, though its spring wound down partway through and it froze with one leg extended, mid-step.

Tony beamed and clapped his hands. “It finally works! I’ve been working on it _ever_ so long.”

Bucky stared at the -- maybe it was a cow? Something with four legs, ears and a tail, at any rate -- utterly fascinated. Then back up at Tony. “How-- how long did it take you?” His sister complained that embroidering a cushion took ever so long, too, and he knew for a _fact_ that she could finish a new one in three days time.

Tony’s brow furrowed in concentration as he counted on his fingers. “Well, it was just before Christmas when we saw the pretty ones at the shop in town, and I decided I wanted to make one. But it took me a while to find a pocketwatch that I could use, and then to plan it out, and I kept making mistakes and having to take it all apart and start over. So... Two months, maybe? Maybe three, if you count the time I was making all the shell pieces.” He patted the thing fondly, as if it were a real pet.

“That’s _amazing_ ,” Bucky told him. He straightened up again to look at Tony. “When I grow up, I’m gonna be the laird of Buchanan Castle. The English -- well, I guess you English -- call my Father a Duke. But we don’t hold the English titles as important. And I’ll have run of the whole castle and all the clan lands. And when you grow up, you’ll come north, to live in the castle and to be my spouse. And I’ll make sure you have all the clo-- what’d you call it again? You can make as many of them as you want.”

Tony’s eyes went so round that Bucky could see the whites of them all around. “Really? Father says I’m not to waste my time on such childish nonsense... I’ve been sneaking out to finish this one,” he confessed. “Only because Jarvis promised he’d keep it safe for me.”

Bucky looked at Tony for permission, then picked it up. The thing was lighter than he expected, but sturdy. “It’s _beautiful_ ,” Bucky said. He put it back down delicately. “An’ well, you have to listen to your father, at least until you’re all grown up. But then we’ll get married, an’ the only person you have to listen to then is me.”

Tony smiled. “I shouldn’t mind that, I think. You’re nice.” He bit his lip and then said, “I was a little scared, when Father told me I was to marry a Scottish lord, even though I’m too big to be scared now. But it’s not so bad, now we’ve met.”

Bucky scoffed. “You’re not too big to be scared. Only a fool’s fearless.” So said Phillips, the old man who trained the castle boys in swordsmanship and bows. “Heroes are damn fools who get other people killed. A soldier… a soldier is _smart_. And a soldier knows fear, and gets the job done anyway. You can be a soldier, just like me.”

Tony looked as though Bucky had given him the entire world. “Really?”

“Sure, why not?” Bucky confirmed. “You come up north, when you’re older. I’ll teach you everything you need to know.”

“I’d like that.” He grabbed a dirty rag off the table and wiped his hands on it furiously, then held out his hand to Bucky solemnly. “It’s very nice to meet you, James.”

“Oh, you can call me Bucky,” Bucky said, taking Tony’s hand and shaking it. “It’s a Scot thing; the head of the clan is sometimes called ‘the Buchanan,’ like, the head of the clan as a whole. The Buchanan speaks for all of us. But since I’m the heir, I’m just Bucky.”

“Bucky,” Tony repeated dutifully, and then sighed. “It will be _forever_ until I’m old enough to come and stay with you,” he complained. “Will you write?”

Bucky rubbed at his left hand absently. If he looked close he could still see bruises from the last time he and his tutor had _correcting words_ about his use of his left hand. But Tony looked wide-eyed and sweet and eager. “Yeah, I can write. I mean, I know how.” He’d heard that Londoners thought Scots were nothing but lumbering barbarians, so he wanted to make sure Tony knew; Bucky could read and write and do maths and he would soon know how to manage an estate and give instructions for the fielding in the spring and the harvest in the fall.

“Good! I’ll write you, too. As often as I may.”

“It’s an accord, then,” Bucky said. Which sounded fancier and more grown up than just agreeing. Looking at his soon-to-be-betrothed, probably, if things went well, Bucky felt very grown up, indeed.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The west tower was mostly quiet. The clan’s children -- mostly Bucky’s younger sisters, Steve, and a few others -- had been tempted into catching whiteclaws in the moat. No one would have believed it of him, but Bucky stole away with a few pieces of parchment, his quill and a bottle of ink, and a few precious letters that had been tied up with a red ribbon. Bucky slept with them under his pillow because there wasn’t a safer place in Buchanan Castle.

He had a letter to write. The postman would make his fortnightly appearance to the Castle tomorrow, bringing news and stories and mail, and taking away letters of business.

And romance.

Bucky blushed, even if there was no one to see him.

He settled into the ancient desk, skimmed through the last of Tony’s letters, almost three months old at this point, which included two sketches of his latest clockwork creation, and a lock of Tony’s hair. His father had gotten tired of Tony’s curls and had the butler cut it close to the scalp.

Bucky traced the letter, re-reading the scene in Tony’s tight, neat handwriting.

_Dear Bucky,_

_I hope you are well._

_I’ve almost finished the horse, but I want to find a way to make its mane sort of flow, like in the wind. I thought I had it figured out, but it kept getting stuck so I’ll have to figure something else. I’ll include my drawing plans with this letter, I’ll not need them any longer, now I’m so close._

_I’ve a lock of hair in a ribbon for you, too. Mother told me a story once about a knight who kept a lock of hair from his love to help him feel brave in battle. I hope you’re not going to battle soon, but I thought I’d send this now, as I’m not to have long hair anymore, Father says. He made Jarvis clip off most of my hair. Jarvis did it in the kitchen and let me gather up some of the hair after he was done so I could keep it for you. The sound of the scissors right behind my ear made me shiver! But my hair is ever so short now. Mother says it makes me look like a big boy, and that soon I’ll be wearing grown-up suits._

_Do you like long hair or short? If you prefer long hair, I’ll try to grow it back out before we’re wed. Father likely won’t notice, so long as I’m_ _ well-behaved _ _._

Bucky scoffed at that again, Tony, _well-behaved_. He’d believe that when he saw it. All reports, both from the letters he’d gotten and the more formal correspondence from Tony’s tutors, suggested that he was as much of a rascal as Bucky. He twisted the curl around his fingers again. He’d have to get Ma to give him some silver for a locket, so he could wear it ‘round his neck all the time.

_Tell me more about your adventures with Steve! Have you gotten into any scrapes since you last wrote? I laughed so much about the sheep in the candle-maker’s cottage!_

_I wish we could go on adventures together. Will we, when I come to live with you?_

_My candle’s nearly burnt out, I must stop. Please write soon._

_Love,_

_Tony_

Bucky chewed on the end of his quill. It was an abominable habit, his tutors all swore, and in addition to being slovenly and stupid, was going to make his teeth fall out -- so said his writing instructor, but Bucky hadn’t noticed any particular looseness in his teeth since he was twelve.

_Dear Tony,_

_I received your most recent. The sketch looks amazing. You’re very clever. We shall put that to good use; the portcullis winch is jammed again. Without the ability to clear the gates, we’re in peril -- so say the soldiers, and so Father agrees._

_I’ve been terrible busy with cutting stakes to line the Castle, as secondary defenses. It’s hard work, but better than listening to my history tutor go on and on, so I’ll take it._

_Steve gathers up all the stakes I cut -- he drew a terrible picture of me with an axe. I’ve included it for you to see. The wind was particularly high that day, and I’m told my kilt flipped up more than once while I was cutting._

It was a terrible picture; Steve was practicing a more comical style, emphasizing such things a Bucky’s tangled hair and the very edge of his bare bum. The axe he held over his head was more than twice as big as he was, and Bucky certainly didn’t have a huge overbite like that, but Steve was amusing himself by playing with the idea of Bucky as a beaver. Busy and buck-teethed, and chopping wood to build a dam.

Little punk.

But Tony might enjoy it.

He dipped his pen again.

_Father says the clanless are growing in number to the north; the displaced and the indigent. People looking for profit over hard work, or who’ve lost their lands. It’s a desperate time for people with no homes. Winter will be here soon, and the cold is terrible._

_I’m already shivering, thinking of it. But we have huge fireplaces in the great hall, and I was speaking with our blacksmith about your ideas for pipes to bring steam ‘round to all the rooms, keep the place warmer and spare us the risk of fire._

_He thinks you’re insane, but I thought it was clever. It might take some work, though. I’ve been looking at the castle’s rooms; there’s plenty of space to install the pipes you were talking about._

Modernization was almost a bad word to Bucky’s father, a waste of time and money. But when the marriage had been settled, Bucky had seen the drafts of the Stark fortune.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, if it was one of Tony’s projects. All the Lairdly spouses had them. Bucky’s Ma had taken it on herself to replace all the bedding in the castle, from straw pallets that harbored bugs and were scratchy and uncomfortable to feather-stuffed mattresses. The expense had been more than anticipated, but Bucky had to admit, his bed was a lot nicer.

_Father says we’re going to go bear-hunting in about a month or so; the bears will be all fat and thick and sleepy, getting ready to sleep for the winter. We’ll have quite a lot of meat, and it shan’t be but a little dangerous. I’ll send you a claw, would you like that?_

_Must go. The sun tells me it’s near time for my maths lesson, and I wouldn’t want you to be ashamed of me._

_Ma says we might go for a London trip around Christmas, and I should like to see you, if we can make the arrangements. Ma’s sister wed a solicitor down that way, and a visit would be very welcome._

_All my love_

_Bucky_

***

Tony read Bucky’s letter over three times, until he was quite certain he had it memorized, and then he re-folded it very carefully and tucked it into the box he’d put under the loose board behind his bed.

Not that he expected Father would come into his room -- it was much more Father’s wont to summon Tony down to the library, if Tony was to be punished for something -- but two years ago, one of the maids had stumbled over Tony’s old toys hidden in the armoire and told Father about it, and that had been a _horrid_ day.

Tony didn’t know if Father would object to Tony keeping Bucky’s letters -- Bucky was his betrothed, after all, and it was a smart match, everyone said so. But he didn’t want to risk seeing them tossed onto the flames and burned to ash.

He closed up his hiding spot and laid the rug back over the loose board, then dusted off his knees and ran a hand over his hair to flatten it a bit. Cutting it short hadn’t stopped Father from grumbling about it, though now it was an _unruly nonsense sticking up like a hedgehog_ instead of a _damned insolent fopmop_.

Tony checked the hallway to make sure no one was coming, then dashed down the back stairs to the kitchen. “Ana! Are we having any guests for Christmas this year?”

Ana, with her red hair that was going more grey every year, pushed a lock of it out of her face with the back of one wrist, her fingers sticky with kneading the bread. “You know, Master Anthony, I do believe your mother said we should ready up the maple suites and to increase the order with the grocer.” She gave him that look, the one that told Tony he wasn’t fooling her at all, but she looked fond, so that was all right. “I believe your young man might be coming for a stay. Maybe a whole fortnight. Won’t that be exciting? Give you two a chance to get to know each other.”

Tony gasped. “A whole _fortnight?_ ” He could show Bucky _everything_. They could go walking in town and look in the shops, and stop at the confectioner’s, and perhaps the zoo, and... It would be too cold to go to the park and race sailboats, but there might be skating, if the river froze. He flung his arms around Ana’s waist and hugged her in delight. “You must make apple cake for him,” Tony informed her.

“I shall make what your mother tells me to make,” Ana said, stern for a moment, but then she relented, “and apple cake, if I’ve time, scamp. If you’ve nothing better to do with so much energy, there’s a whole pile of linens that need to be taken down to the laundry.”

Tony pulled a face, but picked up the basket. “Bucky gets to go hunting bears,” he complained. “How am I to write him about my life if it’s just hauling linens?”

“You’ll be a good helpmate,” Ana told him. “Just think how terrible his castle would be, if the linens were never washed. All the small jobs, Master Anthony, they add up.”

“I’ll be too busy to wash linens once I’m in Scotland,” Tony informed her loftily. “We’ll hire it done.”

“It’s not attractive to be above yourself, Master Anthony. Your head can be in the clouds all you want, but if you don’t look at your feet sometimes, you’re going to fall down,” Ana chided, brandishing one flour-covered finger at him.

Tony ducked his head. “Yes, Ana,” he said, somewhat abashed.

He hauled the unwieldy basket out into the hall, already planning his next letter and thinking of all the fun he and Bucky would have over Christmas.

***

They’d been stuck two days on the road because of a rockslide, but finally, finally, the city was just ‘round the road. Bucky was providing a good example for his sister, because Ma had said to, and if Ma was displeased with him, she might take him straight with them to visit Aunt Georgette, rather than allowing him to be dropped off at Stark Manor.

“It’s all good and well that you’re interested in visiting with your betrothed,” Ma said, pulling his hair into a neat queue where he’d messed it up again from slumping against the carriage seat. “But your aunt and cousins are blood family, and you should spend some time with them as well.”

Bucky didn’t point out that his Ma did not consider Uncle part of the family. In fact, come to think of it, Bucky wasn’t sure he even knew what Uncle’s name was. He was only referred to up at the Castle as “that Englishman your fool sister married.”

Bucky wondered if Father considered Tony a fool Englishman.

Probably.

He sighed and let Ma fix his hair. Again.

Town driving was faster. The roads were clear of ice and snow -- although quite muddy -- and the carriage moved along at a good pace.

He reached into his sporran, fingering the Christmas gift he’d wrapped for Tony. His knees were cold and he shifted under the carriage blankets again.

“There, Ma, look--” he pointed to the ugly house. It hadn’t gotten prettier in the years since Bucky had seen it.

“Yes, darling, it’s only a house.”

“And an ugly one, at that,” Becca added.

“Oh, hush, you--” even though Bucky had just been thinking the same thing.

“Well, it is.”

Bucky didn’t even bother to wait for the carriage to come to a stop, throwing open the door and jumping out into the fresh snow in the drive. He guessed the Starks didn’t get a lot of visitors.

The lawn itself was completely devoid of snow forts, or snow men or any of that sort of fun thing. He wondered what Tony was doing with his time that he couldn’t have taken an hour or so to make up some snow angels, at least.

He checked all the front windows, but he didn’t see an eager face awaiting his arrival. Probably fair. They’d been quite late, and any word they could have sent would have been arriving with them. He ran up to the front door and yanked the bell pull.

It seemed to take forever before the door was opened -- long enough for Becca to have found her own way up the walk, though Ma was still carefully climbing down out of the carriage on the driver’s arm. The butler -- Jarvis -- eyed him and Becca, then stepped aside to let them in. “Master Barnes, and Miss Barnes. An honor. And Lady Barnes,” he added as Ma approached. “Pray forgive that only I am here to welcome you; we’d expected you somewhat earlier, and Mr. Stark thought it best to return the designated greeters to their duties. We’ll have someone fetch your things from the carriage immediately, of course.” He held out his hand for their coats and wraps.

“There was an avalanche,” Becca told Mr. Jarvis, because Becca was nothing if not a grade-A gossip, always eager to share the latest news. “And rocks went down, and they rolled over the road, and there was so much snow and ice, they couldn’t get anyone to clear them off, and--”

“Where’s Tony?” Bucky demanded, looking around. Designated greeter or not, he’d expected his betrothed to be on his way as soon as the bell sounded. Which was probably arrogant of him, but still. He was very eager, and he assumed Tony was just as anxious to see _him_.

Jarvis’ face didn’t give anything away, but he hesitated a moment before saying, “I believe he’s in the library, seeing to the last of his lessons for the day. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to greet you as soon as he’s done.”

“Oh, I think I know the way, thanks,” Bucky said, squelching an unpleasant worry in his stomach. Tony had written him several times, and “Father’s library” was not among the more charming parts of Tony’s letters.

Tony had drawn up maps of the house a few times, practicing his lessons, or so he said, and Bucky had committed a few routes through the huge building to memory. Down the hall, up the stairs on the left, and three doors down! He didn’t quite run. There was something solemn about the place that didn’t encourage loud voices or running. Not like home.

But he did _hurry_. And if Mr. Jarvis said anything, Bucky ignored it, leaving the butler to attend to his mother and sister for a bit. He climbed the stairs and started listening for sounds of anyone else in the house.

“...completely wrong!” snarled Mr. Stark’s voice. The door to the library was cracked, a bit. Bucky crept up to it, holding his breath.

Mr. Stark was sitting in a big chair, a glass of something warm and amber-colored dangling from his fingertips as he gestured emphatically with the other hand. Tony was standing before him, shoulders hunched miserably as Mr. Stark ranted. “The hell have I been paying those damned tutors for, if they haven’t even given you the most basic grounding? Or are you just too thick to take the lessons? Been filling your head with that clockwork nonsense instead of good, solid business?”

“I’ve gotten top marks in all my studies,” Tony said, though what should have been said with pride came out as a plea. “Please, sir, I just don’t know--”

“Don’t give me your excuses!” Mr. Stark snapped. “Why I was saddled with such a useless, stupid heir is beyond me. I ought to beat some sense into that thick skull of yours.”

Bucky inhaled sharply. He’d been switched a few times by his own father and hadn’t cared for it much, even if later, he’d been willing to admit that he’d thoroughly earned it. The thought of someone hurting Tony, and for something as minor as his studies filled Bucky with rage.

_Cool, calm_ , he told himself. He wasn’t quite a man yet -- he’d be sixteen in March -- but he had a man’s height, and he’d done well for himself in the Highland games for sports. A good soldier. And, by rights, Tony belonged to him; the Starks were caring for and training his spouse. Which meant, ultimately, by law, Bucky should be the one to say if Tony should be beaten or not.

Probably best not to press the issue too much, though. The papers were all signed, but-- well, the English only paid a mind to Scot law when it suited them.

He paused, then knocked sharply against the doorframe. “Beg your pardon, Mr. Stark--”

Bucky pushed the door open slowly, giving them both time to scramble into a more seemly position, if they were inclined to pretend nothing was happening. “I came to give you greetings, sir, since we’ve only just arrived. Forgive the tardiness, we ran into some trouble on the road.”

Mr. Stark looked like he was chewing on something sour and bitter and didn’t care for it at all. Tony was staring at Bucky with wide eyes, a dull flush climbing his neck and ears as he chewed on his lip.

“Those damned roads,” Mr. Stark said after a moment. “I keep telling them and telling them, they have to be maintained better or they’ll cause shipping delays, but no one wants to hear it!”

“Road maintenance,” Bucky repeated. “You know, I’ve come to London with my father’s seal. If you like, I can get you an audience in the House of Lords, to speak to the point.” That was, after all, what Tony had been bargained away _for_. Even a Scottish Duke held sway in the House of Lords. The best Stark could get, even with all his wealth, was the ear of some of the more influential members of the House of Commons, and their power was ebbing.

Mr. Stark gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Could you, indeed?”

“Poor road conditions affect us all, Mr. Stark. I’d be honored to do what I can.” His ma would have been proud of how smoothly that came out.

Stark nodded sharply. “Very well. We’ll draft a letter tomorrow.” He knocked back half of the liquid in his glass and waved negligently at Tony. “Go on, get out. I’m too tired to try to stuff anything else useful between your ears. We’ll take it back up tomorrow.”

“Yes, Father,” Tony told the floor. He backed away, nearly colliding with Bucky before he finally turned to flee the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, we know there haven’t been bears in Scotland for like 1000 years (800 or so for the sake of this story.) It’s a hat-tip to the comic where Bucky wrestles a bear, and then it turned into an actual plot device of the story. And also that's only the tip of the Inaccuracy Iceberg in this fic, so... Just roll with it, okay? :D


	3. Chapter 3

Tony was flat-out running by the time he reached the back stairs, his face burning with shame. Bad enough that he hadn’t been able to understand the lessons that Father had been trying to teach him, that he’d made Father angry yet again -- but for Bucky to have witnessed his humiliation made it all the worse. And to think, he’d been so excited, so eager to meet his betrothed again!

He dashed hot tears from his face, knowing Father would only scorn such a show of weakness, and barreled down the stairs, desperate to escape the house and hide in the refuge of the old smithy.

“Ach!” Bucky cried. “Tony, wait, would you? Please?” The bit Tony could see of his betrothed, Bucky was still in his wet things from the road, and his boots weren’t exactly stable on the hard polished wood floors.

Tony didn’t want to wait. He didn’t want to bear any more disappointment and disapproval. But Bucky was older and bigger and stronger and obviously determined to catch him. Maybe it was better to just have it over with. He stumbled to a stop on the landing and leaned into the wall, trying to pull a breath through the knot in his throat.

“Ain’t you fast as a rabbit?” Bucky asked, leaning up next to him. “And I’m all outsized giant, gallumphing along behind you like a fool. That’d be a shame, been waiting months, it seems, just to see your face again, and you go hidin’ it from me. Tony-- come on, sweetheart. He didn’t-- he didn’t tan ya before I got there, did he?”

Tony gulped down another swallow of air and shook his head, eyes firmly fixed on his toes. He almost wished Father _had_ hit him. That would hurt -- it always hurt -- but then it would be over and done, not this looming sense of foreboding. He dragged his sleeve across his face again.

“That’s good, right?” Bucky slid down until he was sitting on the step, kilted legs sprawled. There was snow melting off his shoes and socks, dripping into puddles on the floor. He was wearing sock ribbons, red and gold ones. They looked ridiculous, even if they matched the green, red, and gold colors of Clan Buchanan. “I don’t like th’ idea. I’ve seen your marks, you’re _brilliant_ , Tony! What’s it that you’re havin’ trouble with? Maybe I can help?”  

Tony shook his head harder. “I’m to learn how to manage the business,” he whispered, “an’ I’m doing it all wrong, an’ I don’t know _why_.” Father had tossed a stack of letters at him and told him to make sense of it, to decide what to do about an underproducing factory. But Tony couldn’t see a solution, nothing that could bring the place up to Father’s demands, much less make up the lost goods. He’d suggested investing in an upgrade for aging equipment, but that had thrown Father into a rage.

“A’ight, my wee bonnie lad,” Bucky said, standing up again and brushing his kilt down smooth. “Lead th’ way to your school room. I’ll sit down with ye and we’ll work it through, together? Get Jarvis to send up up a pot of strong tea, and figure it out.” He offered Tony his hand, huge and striped with a sword callus across the palm, nails bitten down to the quick. It was a very different hand than Father’s, whose hands were smooth, his nails immaculately manicured.

Tony looked up at Bucky, finally. He didn’t seem angry or upset that Tony was being so slow.

Tony let Bucky pull him to his feet. “Father said it’s mine to solve,” he said doubtfully. “And you’re-- Oh, Mother will have my head! You’ve not even had supper or time to change or--”

Bucky straightened his shoulders. “I didn’t lie to your father,” he said. “I have the Duke’s seal with me. That makes me actin’ duke, while Father’s in the highlands. I would like to see your work, Tony. Let me help you, sweetheart. We’re in this together, aren’t we?”

Were they? That was a novel thought. Tony didn’t think he’d ever been in anything _with_ someone, before. He swallowed hard around the lump in his throat and nodded. “Okay.” He tried a breath, and it came a little easier this time. “All right. Together. The schoolroom’s this way.” He cut a sideways look at Bucky, and some impish spark made him add, “Your Grace.”

Bucky slung an arm around Tony’s shoulders. It was wet and a little chilly, but at the same time, Tony was warmed as Bucky drew him in for a hug. Tony didn’t get very many hugs. Sometimes Ana would hug him, and Mother sometimes kissed his cheek, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever been hugged like this before. Enfolding and solid and just… Tony wanted to press his face against Bucky’s argyle crail and just… stay there. Forever.

He couldn’t do that, of course, even if Bucky wasn’t dripping snowmelt all over the floor, but--

“That’s my bonnie lad,” Bucky said. “Let’s go defeat this dragon of a schoolwork assignment, and then decide what mischief we’re going to get into while I’m in London. Do you reckon we can see the London bridge?”

“Of course,” Tony agreed quickly. “Whatever you like.”

***

Bucky chewed his lip, holding the packet of legal letters, bills of sale, and inventories. He and Tony had spent the entire afternoon and most of the evening poring over them, and now…

He rapped on the door frame to Mr. Stark’s library. The man had barely made an appearance at dinner before staggering back to the room to brood. Or whatever it was that he did in there. Drink, by the smell of the hallway around the door.

“Mr. Stark, may we speak?”

The library door jerked open and Mr. Stark was there, looking at him through narrowed eyes. Odd, how much shorter Stark seemed to be, this time, barely as tall as Bucky. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to discuss my betrothed’s assignment with you,” he said, holding up the letters. “And I brought you a gift. From one gentleman to another.” A bottle of the local scotch would go a ways to soften even the hardest temper. And by referring to them both as gentlemen, Bucky was reminding Stark that -- not quite sixteen or not -- Bucky outranked him. And that Bucky was, with great courtesy, putting them on a level as equals. _Politics_. Father would be proud.

Drunkard or no, Stark was no fool. He eyed Bucky for a moment longer, then stepped aside, waving Bucky in with poorly-disguised ill grace. “Come on, then. Though I’ll take pains to remind you that your betrothed is _my son_ , and I won’t have anyone interfering in how I choose to raise him.”

“Your son is a child of ten years,” Bucky said. “He's not yet wise enough in the world to see what I see.” Bucky waved the packet. “We'll discuss your rearing of Tony later. Right now, I want to discuss treason. You're familiar, I should think, with the penalties?”

He'd spent all afternoon, concern growing, as he read through the papers, manifests, supplies in and the taxes paid. It didn't add up. At all.

Until he considered the possibility.

Stark reared back. “What the hell are you-- I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but a traitor isn’t one of them. Tread carefully, boy.”

“Better me than one of the King’s own,” Bucky said. “Look, I hate the English as much as any Scot, which means in theory. But I obey the law and our families are tied together. If you go down, we’ll both drown. Look, look here, these numbers. You have iron and gunpowder and wood stock going in-- and these… crates shipped out. The numbers don’t match. You could outfit two hundred troops with the amount of raw materials you’re shipping in.”

He pushed the letters at Stark. “Where’s it going? Unmarked, off the docks. _On my clan's ships?_ Someone’s signing for it, and it ain’t us. Scots aren’t allowed guns, you know that. If there’s rebellion brewing in the north--”

If Howard Stark was involved, Bucky knew he’d just put himself in terrible danger. He was the only one who knew-- even Tony hadn’t caught what Bucky’d seen. But then, Tony hadn’t found himself on the wrong end of a clan raid, either. Howard was a businessman, thin and frail, and Bucky’d thrown a full twelve in the caber-toss event.

_Stupid_ , his father would have said. But better to know, Bucky thought.

“You think I haven’t put that together?” Stark snapped. “I’ve tried to catch them at it, but whoever it is, they’re canny and careful. The numbers don’t add up, but when I walk in there, everything is perfect and orderly, every number exact. Which is just another flag; whoever heard of a shop that doesn’t have _any_ graft?” He dropped into his chair and massaged his forehead with one hand. “I’d hoped the boy would see something I’d missed. The way he thinks, it’s... it’s not like a normal man. No straight lines, that one, but those flights of fancy of his turn out more often than they fail.” He shook his head. “And he’s wasting all that talent on pretty toys.”

“He’s _ten_ ,” Bucky said, very gently. “He still believes what’s written down is true.” Bucky huffed out a breath and fell into the chair. “Christ, Stark, you had me _worried_. Look, I’ve an idea-- send us in. Me and Tony. We’re engaged, let him show off the factory to me. Maybe they’ll see us as merely boys and won’t take such care to hide. I’ll-- we need to find this and nip it, or my clan, the whole north… it could get bloody.”

“Bloodier than it already is,” Stark muttered. “And if there’s trouble, what then? You’re a sturdy one, no doubt, but this isn’t the work of one man. If they think you’ve spotted them, it’ll get ugly, fast.”

“I’ll play along,” Bucky said. “I’m a Scotsman, I wear the kilt, I’m brawny enough. So obviously I’m dumb, and I take bribes to look the other way. Enough to get Tony away safe. And then we’ll bring in the King’s men. But I don’t think this’ll play out in London. Too civilized. My father and I will have to track it down, back home. Find out where the money’s coming from. Where the guns are going.”

Stark grunted. “Fine. Do as you wish; I expect you will, anyhow. Maybe you’ll have more luck than me at getting the boy to pay attention to the business.”

Bucky just nodded. He didn’t want to argue with Stark about Tony; his mother was always telling him things would look different when he had his own heirs to worry about. And he suspected if he showed too much interest in Tony, that Stark would be more suspicious, rather than less. Harsher, rather than more loving.

People doubled down on the weirdest things, Bucky had found. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “Good night.”

Stark just waved at him, staring into the fire and brooding.

Bucky closed the door behind him and leaned on it, just breathing. Funny how terrifying just talking to a man could be. In the woods, the bear didn’t care if you were afraid or not, just how good your aim was, how fast you could run. If Stark had so much as caught a whiff of Bucky’s nerves, it would have been bad.

When he opened his eyes, he about shouted, because Tony was standing right there. Looking at him. _Blood of Christ!_

Bucky jerked his chin down the hall. _Let’s go_ , he mouthed at his betrothed.

***

Tony opened his eyes on Christmas morning and immediately scrambled out of bed, feeling an enthusiasm for the day that he’d never had before.

He looked out the window, at the sun just beginning to clear the horizon, and danced in place a little with excitement. He pulled the rug back by the bed and lifted out the loose board. He had to fish around a little before his hand closed on the cloth-wrapped bundle that he’d smuggled in from the smithy.

From outside came the muffled sound of someone chopping wood, which meant the fires would be lit soon. Tony pulled on his clothes impatiently, tucked the package inside his shirt where it would be safe, and went in search of his betrothed.

The week they’d had so far had been _wonderful_. Lessons had been cut down to just mornings, so that Tony could show Bucky around in the afternoons, practicing to be a good host, as his mother had said. But Bucky hadn’t wanted to do all the boring things that Tony’s parents did with their guests, going to the theater or to dances and musicales and tedious dinners where everyone had to stay in their seats and just talk the whole time and definitely not spill anything.

Tony had shown Bucky all over the house and the land, and Bucky had actually looked excited about the things Tony’d shown him in the smithy, praising Tony lavishly for his clockworks. They’d gone riding, one day when the weather was mild. Tony had taken Bucky for a tour of the London factory -- that had been a little boring at first, but then Tony had gotten caught up in watching the way the gun barrels were made, which was almost as fascinating as a clockwork. Bucky’d had to pry him away from that so they wouldn’t be late for supper.

There would be no lessons today, of course, which meant Tony had the _whole day_ to do as he liked. He dashed down the stairs and along the hall to the guest rooms. He hesitated a moment -- what if Bucky were still asleep? -- and compromised on a soft, quiet _tap-tap-tap_ that probably wouldn’t wake anyone up, hopefully.

Bucky opened the door, still wearing his night rail, but his kilt was laid out on the bed, like he was just in the process of getting dressed. “Happy Christmas,” he said, hair sticking every which way like a haystack. Bucky, at least, hadn’t had to cut his hair, and it was long and thick and most of the time he wore it tied in a tail at the back of his neck. “M’ sister was in here not three minutes past. You come for your stocking ‘s’well?”

“Stocking?” Tony squeaked. “Really?” He’d had a stocking by the big fireplace in the sitting room when he’d been little, but it was several years, now, since Father had said he was too old to be coddled with candy and treats.

“I have… four miserable excuses for sisters,” Bucky confided. “And since Ma and Father want to sleep later, it’s been my job to give them something to do until breakfast. Go stand behind th’ screen a minute while I get m’ clothes on.” Which was backward, but Bucky had explained once that he rolled himself into his kilt, which would be hard to do behind the screen. “Have you been awake long? Becca was in here as soon as she could claim to see any part of the sun at all.”

Tony ducked behind the changing screen and fished in his shirt for the package. Maybe keeping it in there hadn’t been the best idea. “No, I just got up a bit ago,” he said. He listened to the rustling of Bucky getting dressed. “Will I have to wear a kilt when I come to live with you?” he wondered suddenly.

“You don’t gotta,” Bucky said. “Father wears the kilt, most of the Clan wears the kilt, but a lot of people wear trousers, too. You won’t look out of place-- ach, come’ere and help me with this stupid plaid, I can’t---”

Bucky was holding out a length of his house plaid, like a scarf, and the flap on his jacket’s shoulder was unbuttoned. “I can’t reach the button and hold the plaid on and pin it all at the same time. Whoever designed this thing seems to think I got three working arms, instead of just two.”

Tony giggled a little, but willingly held the plaid in place where Bucky showed him, while Bucky folded the flap over it to button it in place. “What would you’ve done if I hadn’t turned up?” he asked. “Come down to breakfast in your shirt?”

“I usually do, at home,” Bucky said. “Ma doesn’t make us wear full kit. This is just… formal clothes. The English are so formal. Fussy little things, the lot of you. You’re the only one who’s barely tolerable, with grease all over your chin. Promise you won’t change.” He turned shy, suddenly and reached into his sporran, the little pouch he wore around his waist. “I uh. I have a present for you. I thought maybe your father wouldn’t like it much that I gave it to you.”

Tony flushed a little and held out his little bundle of cloth. “Father _definitely_ wouldn’t approve of me giving you this, either,” he admitted. “But I made it for you.”

“You first,” Bucky said, handing him a wooden box about the size of both Bucky’s fists put together.

Tony tried to open the lid, but it didn’t budge. “What--” He tried again, but it stuck fast. He felt an instant’s flash of hurt and humiliation -- but Bucky wouldn’t do that to him, surely. He lifted up the box to peer at it closely and only then saw the fine, carved lines. “Oh! It’s a puzzle box!” He dropped down to the floor, sitting tailor-fashion as he turned the box over in his hands to examine it. Something inside thunked whenever the box turned far, but he ignored that, testing the way the panels that made up the box moved.

It took him a couple of minutes, but eventually he opened the lid with a triumphant, “Ha!” He beamed up at Bucky, watching him with shining eyes, before turning back to the box’s contents. It was wrapped in oilcloth and felt heavier than it seemed it should be from the size. He carefully unfolded the cloth, to reveal a beautiful little astrolabe, polished and shining. “Oh! Oh, it’s _lovely_.” He held it up to his eye and sighted along it, pretending to measure Bucky’s height. “Thank you!” He climbed to his feet, careful not to harm his gift. “Now you!”

Bucky unwrapped his gift, slow, as if sensing Tony’s eagerness and drawing out the moment, but there was really only so much he could do with a few rags.

“Oh, Tony!” Bucky’s voice caught, and he sat the little clockwork bear down on the table to carefully wind it. Its tiny paws slashed at the air. “That’s _incredible_ , look-- look at the detail on this!”

“You like it?” Tony felt suddenly shy, now that it had been revealed. It looked so tiny and useless. “It’s... it’s not very fancy, because it’s so small, I couldn’t do very much with it. But you told me about going hunting for bear and I thought it would be fun.”

“It was terrifying,” Bucky confessed. “Bears are a _lot_ bigger than I thought.” He patted the little bear a few times, watching the wind up motions. “I’ll keep him right by my bed at night, he’ll guard my sleep. Thank you.”

Tony nearly sagged in relief, then threw his arms around Bucky’s waist. “I’m glad you like it. Happy Christmas.”

And then there was the stocking that Bucky’d packed up for him, an assortment of sweets and small toys, some water-colors for if Tony wanted to improve himself and gain accomplishments, whatever that meant. And, even better, a box of broken watches and cogs and screws and gears. All in all, the best Christmas yet, and they hadn’t even gone down to sit by the tree.

The breakfast bell rang, a soft chime. “Come on, twig,” Bucky said, standing up and heaving Tony over his shoulder like a parcel as Tony shouted with laughter. “Let’s go eat, before Becca steals all the bacon.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very mild warning here for almost-but-not-quite underage smut, with alcohol thrown in the mix. They don't get much further than making out and grinding a little before they stop, but you're the best judge of your own mental state. If you'd rather skip over it, stop reading about the time Bucky shares his scotch with Tony.

Bucky opened the locket he wore around his neck all the time. A miniature of Tony painted delicately on one side -- it didn’t look much like him, Bucky thought, but it was something -- and the childhood lock of hair on the other side, woven into a braid.

The last trip to London had been so long ago, and Bucky felt like he’d changed. The north had been infested with bandits. Raids and ransoms had become the work of a normal month. Sickness had hit some of the further clans and spread.

He wouldn’t have come at all, except that Father had gotten one of the lung fevers. He’d endured most of the winter, and then, just as the snowdrops pushed through the grass, he’d died. And now Bucky was Duke. The King required all the Scottish Dukes to present themselves formally. An oath of fealty, swearing himself and his clan to the King of England.

It was enough to turn Bucky’s stomach.

_Next time, Tony comes north_ , Bucky decided.

He raised up on his horse to look around, got his bearings. London seemed darker and dirtier than ever.

He wondered if the Stark house was in mourning, or if he could get a rest from the formality of hushed voices and black crepe.

The curtains were drawn at the Stark house, but that didn’t mean anything. Bucky couldn’t remember a time that he’d looked up at that house and felt welcome. So much glass, and no one ever looked out.

He hadn’t bothered to send a missive, beyond the announcement that Bucky was now the Duke. _James_ , he told himself. He really should remember it, and not go by the childish name.

He threw Brook’s reins over the hitching post, shouldered his pack, and yanked the bellpull.

And there was the same butler, again, noticeably older now. If he was surprised at James’ appearance at their door, he didn’t show it, unflappable as ever. “Your Grace,” he said formally. “Do come in. Will you be staying with us long?” He hesitated. “Do forgive my being forward, sir, but allow me to express my condolences.”

“I’ll carry your thoughts to my family,” James said, just as formal. “I’d like to impose a few days, if it’s no trouble. The King--” He hitched in his breath, trying to be an adult, trying to do his duty. “--the King… requires my oath. Just a few days.”

“As long as you like, your Grace,” Jarvis assured him. “I’m sure the young master will be delighted to see you. If you’ll allow me to take your things, I’ll have the maple suite prepared for you immediately.”

“Thank you, you’re a treasure, as always,” James said. He knew the way to the parlor where the Starks stashed their guests until someone had time to tend them. He went straight to the window and threw open the sash, defiantly flooding the room with mid-morning sunlight. He’d been on the road for days; it was a wonder Brook hadn’t gone lame. His father would have had words for him, treating an animal with so little courtesy, but once James started moving, he couldn’t stop, he needed to just keep going.

The Clan was depending on him, he needed to keep… _going_.

“Bucky?” The voice started low and then cracked high mid-word, and when James turned, Tony was already blushing over it. Lord, he’d _grown_ \-- and why James should be surprised at that, he had no idea, having watched two of his sisters, so far, plummet through adolescence. But Tony’s head was nearly to Bucky’s nose, and a moment’s quick figuring suggested he would continue to grow for another year or two. His legs and arms were just a bit too long for his body. His hair wasn’t precisely _long_ again, but it was long enough to fall in soft curls, and his chin showed the reluctant beginnings of a beard. Those wide doe eyes, though, those seemed exactly the same.

James opened his mouth, as if to correct him-- everyone had started saying _James_ , or worse, _Your Grace_ , practically the instant that Father’s eyes had closed and his lungs had stopped. Nevermind. For Tony, Bucky would stay Bucky. At least for now. “Tony--” And then Bucky’s voice broke, cracked, and Tony’s arms were around him. Bucky buried his face in the crook of Tony’s neck, smelling his cologne, and the scent of grease and fire underneath, the way it had always been.

“Whoa, hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s all right.” Tony rubbed Bucky’s back lightly, brushed a hand over Bucky’s hair. “Come on, let’s... let’s just sit down for a minute, okay?” Gently, Tony tugged him toward the sofa, pulled him down without ever letting go of Bucky. “There we go, that’s better, that’s... Oh, honey, it’s going to be all right.”

He hadn’t really been able to grieve. There was so much to do, and he had to be strong. For Ma, for his sisters, for the clan. But here, here there was only Tony, and Tony didn’t need Bucky to be strong. Not now.

He let himself sink into Tony’s embrace, sobbed into his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he kept saying, not even knowing what he was sorry for. Finally, he straightened himself up, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “If I say, ‘oh, look at you, all grown up,’ are you going to push me on the floor?”

Tony didn’t try to push Bucky off the sofa, but he did roll his eyes rather expressively. “I might,” he grumbled, but the way his mouth curved, Bucky thought he might not have minded so terribly much. “You’re here to give your oath? You should have written ahead; we’d have been ready for you. How long can you stay?”

Bucky scoffed. “Once I got the summons, I left,” Bucky said. “I didn’t plan it. I can’t-- I can’t plan this. Not… not this. I just have to do it. I’m sorry, if it’s inconvenient, I’ll get a room, my aunt, maybe? I just. I have to stand in front of your King and bend my knee and if I have to think about that too much, I might well go insane.”

“Of course it’s not inconvenient,” Tony said. “I’d be hurt if you went anywhere else. We’ll take care of you.” He offered Bucky a small smile. “You’re not to go mad until _after_ the wedding,” he said firmly. “I’m counting on you to get me out of here, and the priest won’t marry me to a madman.”

“Soon enough,” Bucky said. “I can use some help up north. It’s been a disaster.” Tony already knew, Bucky had written in detail about the raids, the way the bandits were slowly chipping away at the Clan’s defenses. “After you’re seventeen, I’ll send for you-- would you like that?” Bucky stared at his betrothed. He had always liked Tony, in the way that he liked his young cousins and the children of the village. Cute, fun, smart, but a child. But now he was looking at someone hovering on the very edge of manhood.

Tony had always been a beautiful child, now-- “Yeah, I don’t want to leave you alone here for too long. Some English lad or lass’ll steal you away from me.” He couldn’t help it, ran his fingers through that mop of curls, feeling the way they clung to his fingers. Even as he did it, he eyed the door, closed shut. Astonishing that someone would leave them unattended. Betrothal or no, Tony was old enough that he should be chaperoned.

It was Tony’s turn to scoff. “No chance of that. They all know I’m promised, even if half of ‘em think you’re going to throw me over the back of your horse and ride off with me like a savage barbarian and make me live in a tent or something.” More eye-rolling.

“I do, in fact, have an actual castle. There’s a roof and everything,” Bucky said. Throwing Tony over his saddlebow and riding off with him sounded appealing, however. They were sitting… scandalously close. Bucky squeezed Tony’s hands and then prudently pushed himself a few inches away on the sofa. “If… if your parents will allow, I’d like you-- to accompany me to the fealty.”

If he had to swear loyalty to something English, he’d rather do it with his betrothed in the room and pretend that it was for Tony’s sake.

Which, it was. He couldn’t marry Tony if he wasn’t the duke, and he wasn’t the duke in the eyes of English Law unless he took the oath.

Nonsense, the lot of it.

The Highlanders had ruled their clans with compassion and wisdom without consulting the English for centuries.

“Allow it? They’ll probably shove me out the door after you,” Tony said. “A chance to be seen at court? They’ll be falling all over themselves to agree. Though... When do you have to present? Do you have a day or two, so I can have some proper clothes done up? Nothing I have is fine enough for court.”

Bucky made a face, reached into his sporran. “Here. This is the royal decree, it says something about the date on it, royal proclamation, blah blah nonsense, protocol.”

Tony took the thick, heavy paper, and scanned it. “Okay, I can work with this. And it’ll give you a couple of days to rest, after the journey. Freshen up, as it were.”

“A few days,” Bucky said. “To spend with you. I’d… I’d like that. I swear, you’re the only constant in my whole life.” He reached out, brushed his thumb against Tony’s cheek.

Tony leaned into the touch, eyelids fluttering closed. “God, sometimes I wake up and I’m not sure you’re _real_ ,” he admitted. “Promise you’ll send for me as soon as I turn seventeen?”

“ _Promise_ ,” Bucky said, and, greatly daring, pulled Tony into a quick kiss, just the brush of his lips against Tony’s, enough to feel the heat of his skin and the puff of his breath.

***

Bucky had been exceptionally quiet on the way back to the house, but that was only to be expected; the Scots were, at best, ambivalent about English rule. They’d parted ways to change out of their formal clothes, and then Tony had been waylaid by Mother, who’d wanted to hear every tiny detail -- who was there, what they’d been wearing, what kind of jewelry they had, how their hair had been styled, what gossip Tony had overheard, _everything_. And then Father came in halfway through the recitation and wanted Tony’s perceived rundown of the political landscape -- who was allied with whom, who seemed to be close and who seemed to be snubbing someone, and what sorts of concessions and favors they were hoping to receive.

It took him longer to answer all of their questions than it had taken Tony and Bucky to go, stand for Bucky’s fealty, and come home.

Tony kept to himself the most important things, though: the way Bucky had clung to Tony’s hand as they were waiting. The almost desperate look in Bucky’s eye when his name had been called, and the way he’d looked at Tony before stepping forward. The utter grace with which Bucky had knelt to offer his oath, a stallion bridled but unbroken.

Finally, _finally_ , they let him go, and Bucky was... nowhere to be found. The door to the guest room was standing open, the room itself empty, Bucky’s formal gear laid on the bed where it had been left. Tony checked the parlors, the sitting room, the billiards room, the library, the _kitchen_. He looked out over the gardens, but Bucky wasn’t there, either, and Bucky never went into the smithy without Tony.

He doubled back to the guest suite, just to be sure, and the maids had put away the clothes, but Bucky wasn’t there, or in the bathing room. Finally, in desperation, Tony made his way to the schoolroom, abandoned for years, ever since Tony had outstripped all his tutors.

Bucky was in there, on the floor -- a quick look at what had apparently been a tantrum of epic proportions gave the reason. Every single chair was upended or smashed. He was leaning against the wall, just under the slate. He was wearing a white linen shirt that he hadn’t bothered to lace up, a silver pendant hanging around his neck. His day kilt, the one he called his hunter, which was a dull green with the clan plaid severely muted, was hiked up to his thighs. Between his legs was cradled one of Howard Stark’s best bottles of single malt, more than half empty. A cup lay on the floor near Bucky’s hand, but he seemed to have abandoned it entirely for drinking straight out of the bottle.

Tony couldn’t quite seem to pull his eyes away from Bucky’s chest, and when he _did_ manage it, they immediately fell on Bucky’s thighs instead. _What the devil is wrong with you?_ he scolded himself. _The man’s devastated, and all you can do is ogle?_

“I’d, uh, get up to greet you,” Bucky said, tipping his head to one side with the sort of exaggerated caution that Tony had seen before in drunken lords, “but I might-- jus’ fall over instead. ‘Mere. Have a seat.”

Bucky patted the floor next to him, companionable.

Well. Maybe it was good. Father was best avoided when he’d been in his cups, but perhaps -- just maybe -- Bucky would be different in this, too. Tony crossed the floor, picking his way through the destruction, and sat, folding his legs tailor-style so he could face Bucky. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. He lifted the bottle, took a long drink, throat working heroically as he swallowed. “Had to be done. I can’t-- someone else would rule the Clan. An English landless baron, p’rhaps. Someone who would squeeze out every drop of profit, and no proper care taken for th’ Clan. Had to be done, what choice d’we have?” He looked up at the ceiling, eyes watering. From the liquor or emotion, Tony couldn’t tell. His brogue got thicker, like speaking with only a mild accent was an affectation that he lost when inebriated.

“Yeah,” Tony said. “You, uh. You really do hate the English, huh?”

“No’ _you_ ,” Bucky said. Gestured at him with the bottle. “Truth, we’re more English than we want t’ be. Don’t hate ye one and one and one. S’the whole lot o’ ye together, what takes and takes and _takes_. The Highland clans, they look each t’ their own. We cain’t win. Nor us an’ the Irish, we’re disorganized. We’re… petty and selfish, each lookin’ to their own castle and keep. We pay… taxes. For protection. Protection from what? From the bloody English!”

Bucky picked up the cup, looked as if he was considering throwing it across the room in a fit, then offered it to Tony. “Drink wi’ me?”

Tony took the cup, considered it, and nodded, holding it steady for Bucky to pour. He’d snuck a sip, from time to time, but hadn’t dared take much, lest Father notice. He took a drink, and then had to suppress an immediate urge to cough violently.

“That’s a one,” Bucky said. “It’ll put hair on your chest.” He looked down at his own, rather hairless chest. “Doesn’t seem t’be workin’ proper for me, but maybe for you.”

Tony got his breathing back under control and took another, smaller sip. That went down smoother. “Rather it put hair on my face,” he said, pouting, but couldn’t help sneaking another look at Bucky’s chest. He didn’t see why it should need any hair. It looked broad and strong enough.

“That’ll come with time, laddie,” Bucky said. “Blue-blooded, they call your king. Rather paint him blue faced and put that scrawny chancer out in a field, half a dozen comin’ at him with swords an’ guns. All puffered up, thinking he’s better than.” Bucky tipped the bottle into his mouth again, and some of it ran down his chin. “Oops, there, lad.”

Tony bit his lip. “Don’t... Be careful who you say that sort of thing to,” he whispered. “I don’t want you in trouble over it.”

“I’m no fool,” Bucky said. He reached out like he was going to pat Tony’s shoulder and missed, his hand ending up on Tony’s knee instead. “Jus’, jus’ angry, an’ drunk. Tomorrow, this’ll… thistle? All be headache and bad judgement. Need to let it out, before it grows roots in me, poisons everything. Jus’ be… you be there for me. You’re… the rock I’m buildin’ my life on.”

Tony took Bucky’s hand in both of his, studying it, memorizing it. The calluses and the scars, the sure and certain strength and the infinite tenderness. “I’m here,” he promised. “I’ll always be here for you.”

“You… you are very pretty, did you know that? When did you get so pretty, I… I remember a little boy with great big eyes.” Bucky batted at the necklace at his throat. “This little boy. Where’d he go? You come up here, all… lithesome an’... make me want things. That’s well shan, s’what that is.”

A secret shiver of delight curled through Tony’s stomach and climbed up his spine. Bucky _wanted_ things, with _Tony?_ Oh, Mother would have kittens if she knew Bucky was saying such things to him, but Tony clutched the words close. “All grown up,” he said. “Remember?”

“And not a chore at all,” Bucky agreed. “Will you… will you let me… just a sample of the wares?”

Tony’s heart thumped hard in his chest. He should say no. He was _supposed_ to say no. But it was _Bucky_ , and they’d been betrothed for almost ten years, and there was no one in the world that Tony trusted more. No one else he’d ever wanted, since he’d first learned what it was to want. Bucky had never been anything but kind to Tony.

He couldn’t stop looking at Bucky’s lips, couldn’t stop remembering that brief kiss, a few days ago, and how his skin had tingled for what seemed hours afterward. Tony gulped down a breath and leaned in close, inviting.

“There's a one,” Bucky said. “You ever kiss anyone… anyone else? No. Nevermind, don't answer me that. Unfair of me to ask it anyway. Doesn't matter.”

And before Tony could rally a response, Bucky's hand went to Tony's shoulder and he was kissed. Light, hesitant. Like Bucky wasn't quite sure what to do with Tony, now that Tony wasn't _talking_.

Tony had read a few accounts of kissing. Poets loved to wax on about it. Roses and moons and petals. It was nonsense. Being kissed was a little like being immersed in another person. Overwhelming and a little bit terrifying. Hot and sticky and bumping noses until they got lined up.

Bucky licked Tony's mouth, his tongue clumsy and wet but at the same time, it lit a fire in Tony's belly.

Tony gasped in surprise. Bucky started to pull away, and Tony grabbed him by the shirt, hands bunching in the fine linen, and pulled him back, needing... needing something, needing _more_.

Bucky took it for an invitation, practically pulling Tony into his lap, tongue sweeping inside Tony's mouth. Invading. Possessive. His hands were in Tony's hair, on his shoulders, down his back. Came to rest on his hips.

He was rocked on Bucky's lap, the man's hips rolling against Tony's thigh. “You're so sweet, my darling.”

Tony moaned, his own hips moving in answer, his cock insistent and hard in his trousers. He wanted, he _wanted_... Bucky’s length pressed into his thigh, hot and sweet and--

Tony pulled away with a bitten-off sob of need. “We shouldn’t,” he panted. “Bucky...” It came out a plea, though he didn’t know if he more wanted Bucky to stop or press him to keep going.

Bucky made an incoherent protest, his mouth capturing Tony’s again. “No, you’re right,” he said, between frantic, needy kisses. “We shoul’ nae…” Bucky whined again, then lightly nudged Tony off his lap. In Tony’s scramble to find his balance, he ended up on his butt, knees spread wide, practically laying on the floor.

He stared at Bucky, wide-eyed and panting, and his skin felt cold where it had been so close to Bucky’s searing heat.

“Oh, God forgive me,” Bucky said, and then he was covering Tony like a blanket, cradled between Tony’s thighs. Which felt even better, even more urgent as Bucky rutted and rubbed him.

Without even deciding to do it, Tony’s arms curled around Bucky’s shoulders, his hands plunged into that thick, dark hair. Overwhelmed, he tucked his face against Bucky’s neck and whined with each roll of Bucky’s hips that ground them together, entirely at war with himself, stretched between wanton desire and guilty shame. “Bucky, I-- Oh, God...”

Bucky lifted his head to look down at Tony, eyes huge and dark, and then… “No. No, no, no, no, oh, Tony, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, not like _this_ , not--” He rolled off, scrambled backward until he had his back against the wall, panting heavily and looking equal parts disheveled and dismayed. “I’m… I’m terribly sorry, I should not--”

“No,” Tony gasped. He sat up, pressed in close to Bucky again. “Don’t be sorry, I don’t-- I wanted it, too. _Want_ it. I didn’t know it would be so... Oh, God.” He put his forehead down on Bucky’s shoulder and made himself take deep, cooling breaths, trying to push away the ache in his groin. “If you’re sorry, then I have to be sorry, too, and I don’t... I don’t want to be sorry for that.”

“Tony,” Bucky said, gently, very gently. “It’s not-- I don’t want it, not like that. Not in a drunken rut because I’m angry and lonely. That’s not fair to you, it’s not fair to us. I want-- I want our first time to be beautiful, and perfect, and in a bed, not _on the floor_ like a couple of animals. You don’t deserve to be treated like that, and I’m sorry.”

Tony bit his lip, hard. “I know,” he said. “I know we’re meant to wait, until the priests have blessed us and the register’s been written. I know the priest says it will be better, for waiting. But I... I want you to know that it’s going to be beautiful and perfect, no matter what, because it’s you.”

“No priest, and no register, and no _law_ , and no _agreement_ ,” Bucky said, “makes you _mine_. The only place that vow matters is right here, in my heart. Right where you are. You are mine, Tony. Always. Already. Because I was yours the instant I saw you.”

Tony’s throat closed and he nodded swiftly. He sat back, putting a little space between them, but it was cold and empty. He reached for Bucky’s hand, needing at least that small bit of connection. “I’ve loved you since the first time we met,” he said. “It’s always been you, for me. It always will be.”

Bucky squeezed Tony’s hand. “At home, I sleep-- with your letters under my pillow. Some of ‘em are so old and rubbed bare that I can’t even read them anymore, but I memorized ‘em. A long time ago.”

Tony felt heat climbing his neck. Some of the letters he’d written when he was little were... embarrassing. Childish and dumb. But Bucky still wanted him, so it couldn’t have been too bad. “I’ve got all yours, too,” he admitted. “They’re hidden, so no one will find them, but I’ve got all of them.”

“We’ll make a great team,” Bucky told him. “Not this summer, but next, you’ll come up to the Highlands. I want to take you up the the West tower. You can see almost all the Clan lands from there, if the day is clear. We’ll have to get you a better coat, I don’t want you to take a chill. And then I’ll show you the Duke’s chambers. I’m not quite moved in yet, but I will be. I have-- you know, the first bear I ever hunted, I’ve got a big old bear fur rug. Lay you down on it, in front of the fire. And everything I’ll ever need, I’ll have right there in my arms.”

Tony tried to imagine it, a big room with a fire beating back the chill and a bear skin rug under him, Bucky’s arms around him... He shivered in pleasure. “I can’t wait.”

“Not long now. Promise.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of things, here...  
> 1) There's some implied gore in this chapter (off-screen but not by very much). If you're squeamish and need details before reading, feel free to hit us up on tumblr for details.  
> 2) For this chapter and the next, the timeline is fractured -- Tony's scenes are _not_ happening simultaneously or sequentially with Bucky's, so don't try to put the pieces together like that. We just wanted to let you know in advance so it's not too confusing.

Bucky paused at the bridge, panting for breath. “Remember,” he asked Steve, “when we got drunk that time, and I dared you to spin ‘round and ‘round to try to make the sun go backward?”

Steve gave him a flat look. “And I threw up, yes, I remember.”

“This plan of yours wouldn’t be revenge for that, would it?”

“Would I do that?”

Bucky wasn’t sure. It sort of felt like revenge. The rickety wooden bridge spanned the gorge between the Clan’s lands and the area that had been claimed by Hydra. He stared down the side of the cliff; there was a narrow river that led to the sea somewhere at the bottom of it, but he couldn’t see that far. The fog and spray formed thick clouds. It looked pillowy and nice, but it probably wasn’t.

The raid had been mostly successful. The strike team had raided one of Hydra's seaside caves and found more guns than they could easily carry, without engaging the bandits. Bucky had ordered most of the weapons tossed into the sea or the fire, but a few crates had been sent with the other team, toward the ship. Evidence, for the case of smuggling. Bucky thought he and Howard Stark had closed that operation down years ago, managing to at least keep Stark guns in England (and India, and Africa, and the Americas and everywhere else England tread its boot) but these were Hammer munitions. So, while the rebellion had been delayed and diverted for some time, they were not defeated.

Bucky’s head was already spinning. He’d probably have to go down to London again to make the case against Hammer and the rebellion. On the downside, it was London. On the upside, he’d get to see Tony sooner than expected. Maybe he'd even bring Tony back himself. It would be a bit early, but he might be able to convince Stark to allow it.

“You sure this is going to work?”

Steve had set up several narrow explosive packets along the bridge, put together from the gunpowder they'd found in Hydra's smuggling cave. They’d light them on the way over, and hopefully a good number of Hydra’s bandits would be on the bridge when it blew, taking the bastards to hell.

“If it don’t, we’re going to be running all the way back to Buchanan,” Brock Rumlow said. “They’re literally crawling right up our tails right now.”

“Let’s go then--” Steve said.

“Brock first, Stevie,” Bucky said, catching Steve’s wrist. “In case it’s an ambush on the other side. Traps can be sprung both ways.”

“There’s a cheerful thought,” Brock said.

“Go on, then,” Bucky said, watching as Brock put up his sword and started making his way across the rickety bridge.

“If worries were horses, we’d have cavalry coming to the rescue,” Steve said.

Brock waved the all-clear from the other side. “You next, punk,” Bucky said.

“Jerk,” Steve retorted. He started the cross, pausing at the powder sachets to light the fuses. They wouldn’t have much time, maybe ten minutes before the bridge was nothing but smoke and matchwood. Bucky checked behind them. He saw movement in the trees. Damn, they were even closer than he expected.

Well, Steve didn’t weigh much; Bucky would have to chance it. If Hydra got much closer, they’d start taking potshots at anyone on the bridge. Or they’d see that Bucky and Steve and Brock were alone, and they’d take off after the rest of the team. Bucky stepped onto the bridge, balancing on the thin wood slats, stepping as quick as he could.

Steve felt the bridge’s vibrations. “They’re not all lit--” he hissed at Bucky.

“It’ll have to do, go, go, go.”

Bucky was no more than halfway across the bridge when his shoulder exploded into agony. A moment later, he heard the crack of a longrifle. He went to his knees, blood spilling down his arm, soaking his side. He half-turned, finding the shooter. Impossibly far away.

A Stark rifle, maybe, or a lucky shot. Hammer’s guns weren’t that accurate, at distance. Bucky swayed, almost fell.

“Bucky, come on, come on--”

Steve was there, trying to haul him to his feet. “Go, go--” Bucky gasped. “The charges--”

“Shut up and come on--”

They were not quite the rest of the way across the bridge when the charges ignited.

Steve stumbled, reached for Bucky--

“Take my hand!”

And Bucky fell.

***

… there was darkness. And pain.

Someone had grabbed him and pulled, and there was pain. He couldn’t see anything except a bright smear of blood on the rocks, and then--

“Buck,” came a harsh whisper. “Shh, you need to be quiet.”

He didn’t think he’d ever been in so much pain in his life, and it was going to come screaming out of his throat as soon as he could breathe.

Screaming-- blackness again, and then--

He gasped several times, and his chest hurt. He couldn’t see anything except blur, blue sky, and a worried face. He shook his head, tried to move, and--

The whole world flipped over and he was going to cast up his accounts, and that was bad, that was…

“Steve?”

“Yeah, Buck.” A cool hand came down on Bucky’s forehead, pressing him gently down. “I know it hurts, I know, but you gotta keep quiet. The woods are still full of Hydra.”

Bucky hissed a breath in and let it out. Everything hurt. Bright, splintering agony. “...happen?”

“We blew the bridge,” Steve said softly. “Didn’t make it all the way across in time. We fell into the ravine. Well. You fell into the ravine. I landed on you, I think. Hard to remember, it was pretty blurry for a bit. I’m banged up some, twisted my ankle. Can’t walk so good. You... you’re worse off.” He was stroking down Bucky’s face, over his shoulder, soothing.

“M’ arm,” Bucky managed. “Hurts.” He blinked a few times. The sky was blue. He could see it through little bits of the trees. It kept fading in and out, until-- “Tony?”

“He’s okay,” Steve said, with a resigned sort of patience that suggested Bucky had asked before. “He’s back home, in London. Need you to stay with me here, pal, can you do that? Focus on me.”

But he couldn’t. Couldn’t focus. Bucky let his eyes slip shut, even though Steve was talking, urgently. Desperate...

… black again. He couldn’t breathe. Everything hurt, each breath hurt. Not breathing hurt. “I’m shot, Stevie--”

“Yeah, Buck. Right in the arm. And then it’s broken, besides.” Cool hands stroking down his shoulder, pressing gently against skin that felt like it was on fire. “Damn. Buck, you there? You with me at all?”

“‘F I say no, will you stop talkin’?”

“‘Fraid not,” Steve said. “Wound’s taken infection. We need to do something, fast, before it spreads into your chest.”

“No--” Had time passed, when had time passed? Infections didn’t set in right away, he-- he… had he eaten? Drunk something. He remembered Steve pouring gritty, dirty water into his mouth, and sucking at it anyway. He was so thirsty.

Where were they? Bucky didn’t know. Everything was drowned out by pain. Everything was pain. “Tony? Is Tony all right?”

“Tony’s okay, pal, but you’re not.” Steve sounded strange, like he was half-choking. “Buck... I’m gonna have to take the arm.”

Take it-- how… off? Cut it off? Steve was going to cut off his arm?

“No, no, no,” Bucky moaned. And he looked up, desperately wanting someone to tell him that wasn’t true. He-- “Tony?”

And there Tony was, reaching for him. “It’s okay, be brave, honey,” Tony said. “I’ll be here, the whole time.”

“I’m sorry, Buck, I’m sorry, but it’s the only way to save you.” Steve was weeping openly now. “I don’t even have the proper tools, I-- Damn it all, Buck, it’s not fair. I’m sorry.”

“I’m okay,” Bucky said. He shifted, leaning into Tony’s fingers. “It’ll be okay. Tony won’t-- won’t let anythin’ happen.”

Steve brought out a thick piece of leather and folded it around a wad of wool. “Bite down on this,” he said. “This ain’t gonna be anything like pleasant.”

Bucky opened his mouth, let Steve set the bit into place. He felt the tourniquet as Steve tightened it, and tightened it even more. His _sgian-dubh_ was sharp enough, if it was still tucked in his hose where it belonged. Steve’s would be even sharper. Cutting… cutting through the bone-- Bucky’s gorge rose and he forced it down.

Tony… Tony was right there, smiling at him, patting his hand. “It’ll be all right. I’m right here. You just watch me.”

Bucky couldn’t close his eyes, even when the pain threatened to drown him. When his screams were muffled by the bit, but still too loud.

He watched Tony’s face, and it followed him into darkness.

***

Tony looked up hopefully as Jarvis brought the mail in. Jarvis caught Tony’s eye and shook his head very slightly, expression regretful, as he placed the bundle beside Father’s plate.

Tony slumped in his chair. It was well into summer, Tony had been seventeen for three _months_ , and Bucky still hadn’t sent for him. Tony hadn’t heard from him since early spring. That had been one of Bucky’s usual cheery missives, telling Tony about how he was redecorating the Duke’s chamber, and the room they had set aside to be Tony’s, until the wedding. The sheep in the spring meadows, and Steve in a fight over something small and ridiculous. The mustering of fighters, preparing for the inevitable spring raids from the Hydra bandits. Lamenting the ducal responsibilities that kept him from swimming in his favorite loch.

No hint that he’d grown tired of Tony, or that he’d decided to wait until Tony was older yet. No mention of anyone who might have caught Bucky’s eye and made him regret accepting an English spouse.

Tony wondered if Bucky had thought back on his last visit, and been disgusted by Tony’s willing surrender. Or, on the other hand, perhaps he’d been left cold by Tony recalling them to duty.

If only he could talk to Bucky again, find out what was wrong. Maybe he could fix it.

Tony wasn’t hungry anymore. He excused himself from the table and went back to his room, to his desk.

_My dearest Bucky,_

_It’s been some time since I last had a letter from you. I hope nothing has befallen your correspondence on its way to me._

_You may recall the plans we made, when last you were in London. Has something happened to change your mind? Please tell me when I might look forward to traveling north to finally see your home and take my place at your side. Write soon, or it will be too late to plan an autumn trip before snow closes the mountain passes._

_Yours always, in hopeful anticipation,_

_Tony_

***

Tony cradled Bucky’s head in his lap, brushing cool fingers across Bucky’s forehead.

He didn’t know how long they’d been there. By the water -- it wasn’t even a full river, just a trickle of water that passed over the stones. No one came back for them. Brock was either dead or safe, there was no way to know. Bucky slept, or he was awake and wished he was asleep, or he was unconscious.

Steve had-- Steve had taken his arm. And then _taken_ it. Somewhere. Buried it, if he could. Animals would smell the blood, would--

Bucky didn’t want to think about that. He wanted to lay back and let Tony talk to him, let Tony take care of him. Everything would be fine. They’d… he’d heal up, he’d… get better. They’d go home.

How long had it been?  

“Three days, since the surgery,” Tony told him, whispering. “The infection is gone. I knew you’d be okay, you have to be okay.”

“Tony--” Bucky said, reaching with his right arm for him, but Tony wasn’t there anymore. A rude lean-to shelter made from spruce and bits of river reed. Steve had done well, Bucky thought, aimless. “Tony?”

“Tony ain’t here,” Steve said, ducking into the shelter. He sounded tired. He’d sliced the ends off his kilt to soak in the water and wrap around his ankle, but he was still limping with every step, his jaw set and his lips pale. He carefully lowered himself to the ground beside Bucky and held up a battered tin cup. “Come on, have some water.” He didn’t wait for Bucky to answer, just lifted Bucky’s head and held the cup so Bucky could drink.

“You should go,” Bucky told him. “Get back t’ Buchanan an’ bring help. I’m… I’ll be fine.” He wouldn’t. That was a lie and they probably both knew it. Steve could barely walk, he’d have to rest a lot, and it was at least three miles, through tough ground, to just the very edges of Buchanan territory, never mind the castle itself. But _Steve_ could make it. He didn’t have to die here, with Bucky.

Steve would be able to make it, and-- they could bring Bucky home, at least.

“Don’t talk like that,” Tony said. He was leaning against a tree, just beyond the opening of the shelter. He smoothed down imaginary wrinkles in his jacket. “You just need to regain some of your strength.”

“I ain’t leavin’ you, Buck,” Steve said stubbornly. He prodded gingerly at Bucky’s shoulder and arm, and nodded. “Still no infection, thank God. Another day or two and you’ll be strong enough to travel, and we’ll go home together.”

Bucky swallowed around a lump in his throat. “You an’ Tony,” he said. “Too damn stubborn t’ let me give up.”

“Damn straight,” Steve said. “Come on, drink up. I set a couple of traps; we might snare a couple of rabbits for dinner.”

He was about to say he wasn’t hungry; he wasn’t. The very thought of eating, chewing, _swallowing_ , ug. But Tony was glaring at him again. “Best help me sit up, then,” Bucky said. “Don’t trust you t’ do the damn cooking.”

He couldn’t look at the stump of his arm. It hurt, ached, throbbed. Burned. Itched. How was he supposed to be any kind of husband to Tony now? Tears prickled at his eyes and he ran his tongue around inside his mouth, trying not to cry. Steve would think it was pain -- and it _was_ , just not the sort of pain an apothecary could fix. He couldn’t stop looking at Tony, how perfect and clean he was.

“Do you think,” he said to Steve, “that Tony will still-- want to be married to me?”

Steve helped Bucky upright and pressed the cup of water into his hand again. “‘Course he will,” Steve said. “A Buchanan’s twice as much man as an English lord any day; bein’ down one arm still puts you up by half.”

Bucky took the cup; his right hand was shaking, but not too much. He could raise the cup and drink without Steve’s help. Mostly.

_Mostly_ , he thought. Mostly, he could have some sort of life. He’d have to learn everything over again. To fight with his _sgian-dubh_ right-handed. He’d have to get a valet -- someone to help him dress and tie his damn ghillies. He coughed, put the cup down. He could _mostly_ have a life.

“I’ll help you get dressed,” Tony said, coming closer. “Don’t be stupid. I did it before, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s true,” Bucky said, not really knowing who he was talking to. “Tony’s all right. That’s… Tony’s safe, that’s all that matters.”

“That only matters if you stay strong, so you can get back to him,” Steve said, worry furrowing his brow. “You still with me, Buck?”

There was a snap out in the woods, like someone stepping on a twig, or-- “Your rabbit might be kickin’,” he said.

Tony was waving frantically and making shushing gestures. What-- what--

“No,” Bucky said, then men burst out of the trees, just across the creek, guns and swords, and-- “No, no, Tony, Tony, run!”

He groped for his pistol, hoped to hell that Steve had remembered to clean and load it.

“Hydra,” he snarled, raising his pistol, ignoring the way his hand shook. He breathed, let breathing help him aim--

Too late.

Two of Hydra’s men had rifles. Aimed right for _Steve_.

Steve had his _sgian-dubh_ out, his face curled in a feral snarl, but no mortal man could face two rifles with a single blade and think to live. And Steve was already wounded, could barely stand.

Bucky let the pistol fall out of his grasp.

Tony-- Tony was nowhere to be seen. Thank God. Bucky surrendered, knowing Tony was safe.

Steve was still ready to fight -- he should’ve been stronger; he’d have been a hell of a soldier -- but when one of the rifles swung around to press against Bucky’s temple, Steve, too, sagged in defeat.

***

Six weeks later, the letter was returned, unopened.

Hurt, confused, Tony wrote another, begging to know what had happened, how he had offended.

No reply came for months, and then, in the new spring, finally, an answer arrived, but not the one he’d been longing for. Tony didn’t recognize the rough and blocky hand on the envelope. He cut open the envelope with shaking hands, and had to read the few lines several times before they even made sense.

_His Grace is indisposed and cannot see you at this time. You need not write again._

_\-- B. R._

Who the hell was B. R.? And what did that mean, _indisposed?_ For nearly a _year_ , Bucky had been _indisposed?_

Tony did the only thing that he could think that was left. He took the letter to his father. “Something’s wrong, up north,” he said. “He’s not dead; we’d have heard if he were dead. Let me go north and find out what’s happened.”

Father scanned the brief note and snorted. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “The duke’s off fighting brigands, is all. He’ll send for you when he’s good and ready.” He tossed the paper on the fire. “Or he’s backing out of the deal. Maybe he thinks he’s a better negotiator than his father. I can promise you, he’s not. I won’t budge on the terms, and he’s not likely to find better elsewhere.”

“Please,” Tony begged. “Just let me go. I’m nearly eighteen, I can make the trip!”

“And have you fall prey to Hydra brigands?” Father snapped. “Even if they let you live, you’d be ruined for a decent marriage. Not even Buchanan would have you, after that.”

Surely Bucky wouldn’t be so cruel as that? Tony set his jaw to keep his mouth from trembling. “And my only value lies in my virtue?” he challenged, angry.

Father swung without warning, striking Tony across the face and throwing him to the floor. “Your value is what I say it is,” Father snarled, “and you’ll keep a respectful tongue in your head or I’ll cut it out. I don’t want to hear another single word about this ‘going north’ folly, do you hear me?”

Heartsick and shaking, Tony mumbled his understanding through a mouth already swollen and tasting of copper. He would have to resign himself to waiting and hoping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean... y'all knew it wasn't going to _stay_ fluffy...


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter isn't quite as gruesome as the previous chapter, but there's still a couple of slightly cringe-y bits, especially right at the end. Buyer beware.  
> Also: The timelines continue to not match up. Bucky's timeline continues directly on from the previous chapter; Tony skips a year or so.

Someone put a bag over his head, and he couldn’t see anything but little pricks of light through the canvas. Smelled like rotten meat. A hand grabbed the pendant that hung around Bucky’s neck, breaking the chain with a sharp jerk. _Tony, no--!_

“Ye great bastard, give ‘t back!” Bucky roared. He tried to kick out at the thief, but something shoved into him, hard, and he fell, a scream ripping from his throat as it jarred his arm.

“It’s okay, honey,” Tony soothed. “Let the locket go; it’s only a bit of hair and a mediocre picture. They won’t take me from you, not ever.”

Bucky was hauled back to his feet and tied ‘round the waist, his hand bound to that same rope. Steve was just behind him. Forced to walk, when they couldn’t see and they were down an arm and a leg between them.

He didn’t know how long that hellish walk went on, one foot in front of the other. Agony in his arm and back. He threw up at least twice, heaving on an empty stomach, vomit stuck in the bag with him. He didn’t know why Hydra didn’t just kill them.

By the time someone shoved him chest first into a-- wagon? he _wished_ that Hydra would kill him.

“Come on, honey,” Tony said. “Push with your legs, I’ll help you--” and he could feel someone grab him under the armpits and pull him in. He banged and scraped his stump against the wood and he couldn’t help the animal howling that came out of his mouth, gasping, screaming--

Steve was cursing, calling their captors every sort of foul name, pressing up against Bucky’s back, trying to provide comfort where none existed.

“You shut him up, or I will,” one of them growled and Steve was pressing closer, all but rolled on top of Bucky now.

“Shh, come on, Buck, I know, I know, but you need to-- You want to get back to Tony, right? Think of Tony, okay, just... Be strong for Tony.” He sounded half desperate.

Tony wouldn’t want this. Wouldn’t want Bucky to die like this, half smothered in his own puke, screaming on the end of a Hydra sword. He choked on it, stifling it. “Tony? Tony, please--”

“Yeah, honey, I’m here. I’ve got you,” Tony whispered, soothing.

Bucky took a deep shuddering breath and let go. Blackness...

It didn’t last long. It never lasted long. Every bump and jolt of the wagon woke him. But he didn’t need to scream, and they didn’t feel the need to make him. He was too exhausted for anything else. “Can you see, pal?” he asked. “Anything?”

Steve grunted. “No. It’s still daylight, that’s all I know.” He sniffed, and then sneezed. “Pretty sure we’re moving away from the sea, but I don’t know which way.”

Bucky listened, hard as he could. Voices, breathing. A horse, no, two horses. Or one horse with eight legs, at this point, he’d believe just about anything. They were in a cart, which meant a road. Listened to the men talking. One… three… five maybe, unless some of them weren’t talking at all. Outrunners.

“Tony’s… Tony’s all right,” Bucky said. “Can… can you tell how many?”

“I counted eight,” Tony said, “when they came out of the trees. It can’t be helped right now, honey. Just do what they say. You’ll live longer. Where there’s life, there’s hope. I’m right here, you know.”

“No,” Steve said, as if Bucky had asked him. “At least four, probably more.”

“You’re right,” Bucky said. “Can’t be helped. Steve, I want you-- want you to stop fighting. Save your strength, pal, okay? Okay, you can do that for us, right? Until I get my bearings. It’ll be all right.”

“That’s smart,” Tony said. “And I’m right here. I love you, you know that, right.”

“Love you,” Bucky said.

“Love you too, you jerk,” Steve muttered.

***

The rope around his arm was cut, and Bucky was shoved forward. He barely got his right arm out in time before he hit the floor with his face. Another grunt and Steve landed on top of him. Again. His whole body felt like a giant, Steve-shaped bruise. He scrambled for the bag, got it off.

The air in the -- cage? -- was foul, stinking of sweaty bodies and rotten food -- but Bucky gasped for breath nonetheless.

“Where the _hell_ are we?”

There were prisoners. More prisoners. Cages and cages, and they seemed to go on forever. Even in the dim light, Bucky’s eyes burned.

“Mine,” someone said. Bucky lifted his gaze. Tony was there, straight and clean and beautiful. “It’s a mining facility. Run off slave labor, looks like.”

“Stevie, you okay, pal?” Steve wasn’t moving. Bucky used his good arm to half-crawl over the filthy floor to tug at the bag on Steve’s head.

Steve groaned and winced as the light hit his eyelids, but he refused to open them. “Buck?”

“Yeah, we’re here, pal. Wherever here is.” There were two other men in the cage with them. A Stewart, based on his ratty tartan, and another one wearing rags.

“Hell,” the Stewart said. “Or close enough. Hail Hydra, am I right? This here’s Jim, he was on one of Stark’s ships, before _they_ mutinied, took it over. Sails under Hydra’s flag now, at least when they’re not in port. Who are you?”  

“Steve,” Steve said. He squeezed one eye open, looking the Stewart and Jim over, then pushed up to sitting and offered a hand. “This’s--”

“Don’t tell them who you are. You’re just James,” Tony said, and Bucky agreed. “James, that’s me. And... ” He waved his stump weakly in Tony’s direction. “Tony.”

He didn’t _quite_ miss the way the Stewart looked at Steve, and the way Steve looked back.

“Picked us up after a raid,” Steve said, pointedly turning the topic. “If we hadn’t been injured... Well. How about you, Stewart?”

“Sold,” the Stewart said, disgusted. “Name’s Timothy. My clan’s in debt. Some damn English came up, threw us in the debtor’s prison. Wasn’t so bad. My wife was working on getting the money-- and then the warden sold off the lot of us to Hydra. Claimed a riot in the prison, that we’d all been killed. No one knows-- that’s thirty-six of us left here, just. Sold. Like _property_.”

Steve snarled. “English warden, no doubt.” He looked around, eyes calculating. “We get out, we’ll be sure to see you on your way.”

Jim shook his head. “No. We work, we die. It’s done, it’s all done now. Dig and dig and dig. We get sick.”

“Steve’s a ‘pothocary,” Bucky said, wearily. “He can mend-- a bit.” He waved his stump around again. The muscles hurt, and it didn’t move the same way it had, when his elbow was still attached, but-- “Is there any water?”

“Not til they feed us,” Jim said, but Timothy was reaching into his kilt where he had a pair of flasks secured under his belt. “Water. And whiskey. What’s your poison?”

“Water,” Steve said. “Save the whiskey... Hate t’ say it, but we might need it to clear wounds, keep infection out.”

“I don’t know, I could certainly go for a whiskey,” Tony said. “This is a deplorable situation, honey, and I don’t know-- we’ll have to keep a sharp eye out for a few days, see if there’s a way to escape.”

“Shut up, Tony,” Bucky muttered, waving his arm around. “Sit down, you’re making me dizzy, so far up there.”

Tony laughed, delighted and took a seat at Bucky’s side. “It’s all right, honey. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”

***

Tony stood in the library, staring into the fire, gently rolling a glass of whiskey.

It usually reminded him of Bucky, of that painful and beautiful day when Bucky had sworn fealty to the King and they’d... kissed. It would never _not_ remind him of that day.

But now it would never not remind him of the day, a month ago, a breathless child had pounded on the door, demanding that Tony come at once to the scene where his father lay dying, having carelessly -- _drunkenly_ \-- whipped the carriage horses into a frenzy and made them race through the streets. The carriage had tipped on a sharp turn and been dragged several blocks, and then the horses had gotten tangled in the loose leads and fallen. One of them, thrashing, had kicked Howard in the skull.

He’d opened his eyes for a moment after Tony arrived, but he hadn’t seemed to recognize Tony at all. His mouth had opened, his jaw worked, but no sound emerged. Tony couldn’t stop remembering the moment, trying to read Howard’s lips, to understand his last words.

They’d laid a cloth over his face for the funeral, and Tony had felt obscurely guilty for the relief he’d felt at not having to see the utter _wrongness_ of the dent in his father’s skull.

Tony shuddered and took a swallow of the whiskey, not really tasting it. The solicitor was due shortly, to go over Tony’s inheritance with him, the properties and contracts and investments.

Tony already knew most of it; he’d been handling more and more of the business as Howard had slipped deeper and deeper into the bottle. But there were papers to sign and arrangements to be made -- for his mother, if nothing else, who seemed to have turned into a ghost with her husband’s passing, pale and silent.

Tony wondered, briefly, if news of Howard’s passing had reached the highlands yet, and whether Bucky would consent to see him now, finally -- but he pushed the thought aside. Bucky hadn’t deigned to write him for more than two years. Even if their betrothal wasn’t officially ended, Bucky’s position was amply clear.

Tony tossed back more of the whiskey, using it to wash away the lump in his throat. He hadn’t wept for Howard, and he would be damned if he’d offer tears to a man who’d forgotten him.

“Mister Stark,” the solicitor said, rapping on the door and announcing himself like they didn’t have a damn butler. Where was Jarvis, anyway? “Mister Stark, thank you for-- er, my condolences, sir. On your loss. On the loss. Of your father, I mean. I’m Franklin Nelson, the-- Mr. Murdock sent me over to go over the details with you. May I-- come in?”

“Might as well,” Tony said, and gestured toward the desk. He nearly took his accustomed seat, then paused, recollected himself, and walked around the desk to Father’s chair. His chair, now, along with everything else in the house. He tossed back the rest of the whiskey and set the glass carefully aside. “Please be seated, Mr. Nelson.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” Mr. Nelson said. “I… perhaps I should start out with the obvious to everyone else, but maybe not so baldly stated, Mr. Stark. You are now the wealthiest man in London. Short of the crown, of course. Thank goodness you have to be in black for a year, or there’d be matchmaking mamas trying to climb in your window, even now--” His voice trailed off uncertainty as it occurred to the man exactly what he was saying.

Tony snorted indelicately. “Have you met some of those women? I very much doubt it’s merely my mourning garb keeping them at bay. Before I can even consider marriage, I’ll have to break my betrothal. Which, as my betrothed outranks me, will require his signature. And as I have heard nothing from him in years, that may be a challenge.”

“Murdock and Nelson would be delighted to send a courier up to Scotland immediately, sir,” Mr. Nelson said. “And if the Duke is not available, his closest relative or the parish priest can sign in his place. A little extra pound-sterling and I’m sure we can get this nasty business put behind us.”

Tony ignored the twist in his chest crying out that he did not _want_ to put Bucky behind him.

It didn’t do any good if _Bucky_ was the one who’d changed his mind. Though he might have had the courtesy to _tell_ Tony that. In a letter, if not in person.

Anger flared, hot and bright, burning away the fog of grief and guilt and betrayal and remorse. “No,” he told Mr. Nelson, suddenly certain of his path. “I’ll go, myself, in the spring. Have the papers drawn up.”

“Are-- are you certain, sir? The north roads aren’t well patrolled right now, and well, they don’t call them ‘the wilds’ for nothing,” Mr. Nelson said.

Tony smiled thinly. “I’m an excellent shot, Mr. Nelson, and not entirely useless with a blade. If I travel incognito, in a hired carriage, no one will have reason to suspect I’m worth the effort of subduing. But if your office receives a ransom demand for my return, I give you leave to chide me as roundly as you like after you’ve paid it.”

“Of course, sir,” Mr. Nelson said. “Now, if I might, here--” He spread some papers across Tony’s desk, turning his attention to the mundane of investments and contracts, some of which would need to be re-evaluated and signed again, instead of resting on the weight of a dead man’s word. Particularly the government contracts.

At least Tony wasn’t expected to go in before the king and kneel, swearing his oath. Because Tony was not of the peerage, or the Scottish peerage, and his oath was assumed by his less-than-blue blood.

***

“Ah, home sweet home,” Tony said, looking around Hydra’s smithy. Huge cauldrons of ore bubbled and smoked, filling the air with soot and heat.

Bucky didn’t like it, but that was because two men had died in an accident in the past month. Hellbroth, they called the slurry of heated iron, separating the metal from the impurities. So hot that a spilled cauldron of it burned two men alive before they could even scream.

Bucky didn’t even remember their names.

But he and Steve had been pulled from digging to work the smithy.

It amazed him, sometimes, that he was still alive. Months had passed; Steve couldn’t tell him how many, although Tony sometimes had a number. Six hundred and thirty days. Seven hundred and twelve days. It was sometime in the spring, Bucky knew that much. He thought he might have passed his birthday in this pit.

“Happy birthday to me,” he muttered. Even a one-armed man could work and Hydra was getting every ounce of it from him. He could push carts and load wagons. He could stoke the fire and work the bellows.

Steve’s skills had kept more of the Hydra slaves alive, even if they’d rather have not been, which meant the foreman was pleased with them.

It earned them little luxuries. Blankets. More food.

_Permission._

“You’ll want to measure the mold several times,” Tony told him. “You’ll only ever get one chance at this.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky said. They’d been working on the cup for several days now, a pour mold cap, and a huge bolt on one end. For changing out, Tony had said. “You want variety in your hook hand, don’t you, honey? Just think how awkward that will be on our wedding night, you like a great rusty old pirate?”

Steve wrapped a piece of string around Bucky’s stump, checking the measurements. “You sure about this?”

“Yeah, yeah, Tony wants me to,” Bucky said, meeting Tony’s eyes with a smile. His betrothed gave him a wink and an encouraging thumbs up. “Two arms is better’n one, right? Even if we gotta make it ourselves.”

Steve’s face went flat for a moment, like it did every time Bucky mentioned Tony, but he sighed and nodded. “Yeah. But they’ll expect that much more work out of you.”

“Maybe,” Bucky said, nodding carefully. He flitted his gaze around the room. None of the guards were paying attention. “But they think I’m a crip, and cracked in the head besides. Two arms gives us twice as much chance to get out of here. They barely even see me, anymore. It’s almost _May_ , Stevie.”

Steve glanced toward the smithy door, where sunlight leaked around the cracks. “You seem pretty sure of that. What’s it matter?”

“If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a hundred times,” Tony complained. “You think he’d listen more if I wore the kilt instead of trousers? It’s my _birthday_. We’re getting married in May, just like we always said we would.”

Steve, Bucky was pretty sure, didn’t care that much about Bucky’s wedding to an Englishman. “We want to get these men out of here before another winter,” Bucky said, thoughtfully. “Half of ‘em won’t live through that again. If we’ve got any chance at all, it’s gotta be soon.”

Steve sucked on his teeth thoughtfully, and nodded. “Okay, B-- James. Okay. Let me just take one more set of measurements, and we’ll do this.”

“It’ll be all right,” Tony said. He touched Bucky’s chin. “One more brave thing, and then--”

“And then another brave thing, be strong, just a little longer,” Bucky said. “It better damn well be worth it, is all I gotta say. You’re worth it, I know. Just a little longer, and I’m going home.”

“This’ll fit perfectly,” Tony said, looking into the mold. “Pour it in, don’t wait. It’s gotta mold right onto the end of your arm. That’s not going to be fun.”

“None of this has been fun,” Bucky protested.

“You got _that_ right, pal,” Steve muttered, but Tony was stroking Bucky’s cheek and murmuring, “I’ll be right here, my love, I’ll be with you.”

The very last of the whiskey -- God only knew where Timothy was getting it from, and no one asked -- was in Bucky’s waterskin. He checked the guards again, and then swallowed it down. It really wasn’t enough to help, he knew that, but maybe he could fool himself.

“Get ready,” he told himself. One pour, one lean into the cup, and then his part would be done, aside from the screaming.

Steve was setting the cup into place, checking its position, and he nodded. “At least it’s self-cauterizing,” he said, though he looked more than a little green through his gallows-humor smirk.

“So brave, so perfect,” Tony whispered. “How could I ever want anyone else?”

“Yeah, when I get home, you’re gonna make me a better one,” Bucky muttered. “Go on, pour it before I lose all my guts here.”

“Right.” Steve glanced past Bucky, at the huge, burly men who had agreed to help hold Bucky while the mold set. He looked at Bucky again, meeting Bucky’s eyes with a resolution like the finest and strongest of steel, and he poured the molten metal into the cup.

Bucky nodded, fixed his eyes on Tony, and then--


	7. Chapter 7

Tony had originally planned to head for the highlands as soon as the winter weather had broken, but what with one thing and another, between the effort of re-negotiating half the Stark contracts and getting his mother installed into a comfortable home with servants Tony could trust to care for her, it was closer to summer than spring when he finally set out.

As promised, he hired an unmarked carriage and a pair of sturdy but not very pretty horses for the journey. He’d consulted the maps until he was certain he had them memorized, written ahead to reserve housing at several inns along the way -- and a few others along alternate routes as well, to reduce the chance of gossip giving him away to bandits -- and packed his trunk carefully.

He’d eschewed a driver -- anyone who could afford a driver was that much more susceptible to highwaymen -- and carefully set a brace of pistols and his best rapier in the driver’s box within easy reach.

He doubted he’d have to use any of them, though; Bucky had said the rebels and raiders mostly came from farther north than the Buchanan seat. But if all the precautions made his solicitors less nervous, then he would indulge them.

The first few days of travel were tediously uneventful. Tony had gone this far with Father before, to inspect their factories and meet with investors, and there was nothing of that countryside to interest him, though he was grateful enough to be out of the close confines of the city, where the air was already thick and heavy with the promise of summer.

Beyond that, at least, there were new things to see -- stately manors and green forests, laborers in the fields and children racing their hoops along the narrow lanes of the villages.

As the mountains grew steeper, Tony had to pay more attention to the roads, making sure his horses didn’t go lame or that his wheels didn’t get broken in holes. He knew he’d crossed into Scotland when the locals eyed him with suspicion, though they never grew so unfriendly as to refuse his money. He managed to soften a few of them by proving himself willing to get his hands dirty caring for the animals and making minor repairs to the carriage. The rest, he simply didn’t worry about.

He had no need to win them over, after all, because he wasn’t staying. Still, he couldn’t help the way his heart jumped, the first time he caught sight of a familiar plaid on a shepherd in a field. He waved the man down and asked, “How far to Buchanan Castle?”

“You a solicitor?” The man squinted up at him suspiciously. “Y’ain’t a redcoat, that’s for sure.”

“I’ve some solicitor’s documents in my case,” Tony admitted, “but I’m simply a man of business.”

“Business for the Buchanan, ha, that’s a good one,” the man said. “Hope you got a high tolerance. S’ways up. Two days. Not far now, Sassenach.”

Tony grinned at the insult. “My thanks.” He clucked the horses into movement, pressing across the meadow and toward the thick forest that covered the horizon.

“Careful,” the man said as Tony was almost out of earshot. “There’s bears ‘round here.”

Bears. Right.

He’d have written that off as a bit of poking fun at the ignorant Englishman, but he definitely remembered Bucky writing about bear hunting. On the other hand, this wasn’t early spring, when the creatures were freshly-woken and hungry; they’d probably just avoid anything as large as the carriage and its horses.

The woods here were thicker than those close to home, the road rougher. Tony had to get down out of the carriage several times to lead the horses around fallen trees in the road, which slowed him down considerably. The afternoon light was beginning to wane, and he still hadn’t seen the inn where he’d planned to overnight.

So, of course it started to rain.

Which just made everything slower and more aggravating. And darker. And apparently the horses didn’t like it much either, because they took it into their tiny equine heads to shy at every leaf and blade of grass.

And then Tony heard a sound.

A growling, enormous sound. Like someone had actually turned Hades’ dog free and let it prowl around the upperworld.

Something huge and black and wet dashed into the road, and then stood up on hind legs-- bigger than the damn _carriage_ , and swiped an enormous clawed paw at the horses, who suddenly wanted no truck with this at all--

“Damn it!” Tony pulled hard on the reins, but the horses were having none of him, either, not in the face of a bear. They shied and reared and tried to tear off into the forest. The carriage bumped and rattled and _tipped_ \--

Tony found himself on the muddy ground. All the wind had been knocked from his lungs by the fall, he couldn’t _breathe_ and the bear was _towering_ over him and _hell_ , Nelson was right, he was going to _die_ \--

Something jumped onto the overturned carriage and roared in anger. A crack of lightning illuminated the scene, but even then, Tony wasn’t sure what he was seeing.

A huge man, with wild hair like a bush all around his head, carrying one of the great Scottish claymores in one hand and a shield strapped to the other, screamed at the bear, distracting it. “Come on then, bear, come-- worthy prey for you, right here! _Come on_!”

Christ, the man was _insane_. He was big, but the bear was _enormous_ , with claws near as long as Tony’s whole _hand_. Tony scrambled back, desperate to get as far from the creature as possible.

The man jumped down, put himself between Tony and the bear. “Ach, you miserable bastard, led us on a good chase, but this ends now, it ends, you hear me?”

The bear did not seem impressed, practically yawning as it swiped a paw. The man got the shield up in time and grunted at the impact. There was something… off about the man’s arm, and as he turned, Tony saw it-- The shield wasn’t _held_ , it was strapped on to a thick, wooden peg that extended out of a socket join on his bicep.

Swinging the claymore, the man raised it up almost like an axe and slashed, opening up the bear’s shoulder and ribs, splattering blood everywhere. The bear roared, pain, fury, and the man screamed back at him.

The horses were screaming, too, tangled up in some shrubbery just off the road. Everything was wet and dark and terrifying. Tony gulped for breath and crab-crawled back even farther, unable to take his eyes off the madman and the bear, who didn’t seem to have been deterred at all by its injury.

They exchanged a few more blows, and the bear got a swipe just under the edge of the shield and there was a screaming sound of metal on metal as the peg arm twisted. “Bastard, it took me two weeks to make that!”

The bear didn’t seem particularly concerned about that, either. It shoved the shield arm away with one paw and that enormous head lunged down. The man dropped the claymore and Tony was quite certain he was about to see the man die. Not that it would matter much, since Tony was almost assuredly next on the list--

Instead, the man grabbed a knife from a sheath under his left armpit and as the bear came down, he stabbed up, catching the beast under the jaw, slamming the teeth shut, and as the weight of the animal came down on him, practically punched a hole through the bottom of its head.

The bear went down, man underneath.

Neither moved. Tony panted, listening to the horses thrashing, but the bear was still. He forced himself to his feet and limped closer. “Hello?”

“Ge’ off, ge’ off me, ye great dead bastard,” the man grunted, pushing and shoving his way out from under the bear.

Tony clenched his teeth and grabbed one enormous limb, tugging it off the man’s legs. “Are you all right? Do you need a doctor? I can...” It would take him a while to settle the horses, but they couldn’t be too far from that inn now.

“Don’t know,” the man said. He ran one blood soaked hand through his hair, pushing it back. “Wearin’ the woad. ‘M I hurt? Don’t know. Can’t feel nothin’.” He hauled himself to his feet. “Look at that, you great wreck of a monster. Broke my arm, you did.” He gestured with the shield, wobbling back and forth on his arm unsteadily. “Hold that a minute, would you? The shield, daft, just grab it an’ hold.”

Tony inched closer and took hold of the edges of the shield, slippery with blood and rain, and prayed the madman was not about to club him over the head.

Instead, the madman reached inside his shirt and pushed, or pulled, _something_ , and the whole thing made a clunk, and then fell off in Tony’s grip, leaving the man with a shoulder cap with a bolt sticking out the end.

Tony gaped for a moment, then realized he was staring rudely. “Sorry, that’s... That’s actually quite clever.”

“M’ husband made it for me,” the man said. “Got a few spares, back-- back home. Yeah, I know, I know, don’t…” The man waved his living hand around like he was swatting a fly. Tony couldn’t tell anything about him, he was up to his eyeballs in beard and blood. “Will you shut it up, I’m thinkin’!” That seemed to be directed at the horses, who were still carrying on, not liking all the blood or the panic of being tied to a carriage that wasn’t going anywhere.

“Why don’t I just...” Tony set the detached shield down and gestured toward the carriage. “I’ll see what I can do with them.”

“Yeah,” the man agreed. “Break it down, we can tip half a carriage better’n a whole one. Them back wheels are good. Make a sledge, load this great hairy bastard on there.” He searched around for a moment, then came up with the knife. “Aha. Good, good, that’s good.” He tucked the knife, blood and mud and all, in his teeth.

He stomped over to the bear and actually rolled it over, one handed. Bloody hell, the man was strong as an _ox_. With a few swipes of the knife, he opened the bear’s belly, spilling its entrails everywhere. “What I wouldn’t do for some light,” the man said, then-- “Gotcha.” He pulled something squishy and wet and about the size of a ham out of the bear’s innards and-- oh, God -- _took a bite._

Tony’s gorge rose, and he choked it down. Maybe he’d just cut the horses free of their traces and ride the rest of the way, leave this lunatic to his dead bear. Except there were things in the trunk in the carriage that he couldn’t leave behind, damn it all. At least the madman didn’t seem inclined to murder Tony, at the moment.

Tony made his way over the fallen trees and brambles and around to where the horses would be able to see and smell him, and tried to talk them down a little, just enough that he could dart in, grab hold of the tangled reins. If he could pull their heads down, they might settle enough for him to untangle everything.

One horse settled easily enough, eager to put himself in the hands of someone sane -- which showed poor judgement on the horse’s part, Tony thought. The traces were a mess, but he could cut and tie them back together.

“Here,” the man said. How the hell did he move so quietly? He offered Tony something on the end of that blade of his. “It’s liver. Good for you. Give you some strength.” He looked around, nodded. “Yeah, needs feeding up, this one.”

“I... prefer my meat cooked, thanks,” Tony declined as diplomatically as he knew how. “Any chance you know how far we are from the inn?”

“Ach, eat it, it’ll put hair on your chest,” the man said. Then looked up at the sky, although what there was to see up there aside from clouds and rain, Tony didn’t know. “Maybe half a league, no more.”

Half a league, that wasn’t so bad. Tony could walk that himself if he had to, though he didn’t like the idea, not in this rain. “I’m expected,” he told the madman. “Lend me your knife so I can cut this free?” He tugged on the traces, demonstrating how hopelessly they’d been snarled in the bushes.

“We’re not leavin’ the bear,” the man said. He took the piece of liver off his knife, bit another piece off the end, and when Tony opened his mouth to say something, he found himself with a mouthful of soft, almost creamy meat, still a little warm. “That’s a winter’s eating for the clan, and I spent th’ last three days chasing it down.”

Tony coughed and choked in surprise, and nearly spat, but the man was looking at him expectantly, and it wasn’t... _utterly_ horrible. He swallowed with only a little difficulty, then looked back at the bear, cocking his head curiously. “How would you have gotten it home if I hadn’t happened along?” he wondered.

“He was s’posed to go into the blind. I had a sledge an’ a smoke pit all ready for him, but no--” He kicked the ground angrily. “Make it _work_ , that’s what he had to go and do. Well, no one can say ‘useless’ now. Blarmy an’ useless, an’ unfit. Bollocks.” The man looked at the bear, then at Tony. “We killed that bear, we did. Ha!”

“You did,” Tony corrected. “I was utterly useless.” He looked back at the carriage. “I think, if you’ll help me take the wheels off, we can rig up a sledge that the horses can pull. Though I’ll have to send someone from the inn back for my trunk.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “My husband, he-- he was good with stuff like that, making stuff.” The man considered the carriage thoughtfully, then cut the line for the horse and led it back up to the road. “Stay here, beastie, we’ll see you warm in oats and hay in no time.”

***

“There’s no sense in leaving the trunk,” Tony pointed out. The rain didn’t affect him. It never did. He always looked smart and neat and perfect. A ghost.

A ghost, that’s all he was, and Bucky walked right through him, trying to ignore him.

“Get the trunk, honey, it’s important,” Tony said again, and Bucky all but snarled at him. Which wasn’t ignoring him at all. Acknowledging the ghost gave him power over Bucky. Bad enough that everyone had thought he was dead, but to come home and discover he was either insane or haunted?

Bucky’d heard the whispers.

_Unfit._

_Useless._

_He’s had a tough time, poor dear, but the Clan needs a strong leader._

_Mad._

“I’m going bear hunting,” he had told Steve. “We need the meat.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Steve had told him. “You can’t hunt a bear alone, and the rest of the--”

“I won’t be alone,” Bucky had said. “Tony’s with me.”

“Tony is half the reason I’m worried,” Steve had yelled. “Buck, come on, just-- can you just give it a rest? You got nothing to prove.”

But Bucky couldn’t let it rest, he _couldn’t…_ he just could not.

He set the stranger to work, fixing the cart. The man was handy with tools, Bucky would give him that much.

Bucky stripped off his shirt and let the rain fall against his skin. Washing away the blood and the mud and the stupid warpaint. That had not been a smart idea, Bucky decided, as he started to get some sensation back. He couldn’t tell if he’d been cut. The last thing he needed was another infection.

“Ach, English, c’mere--” he said, turning. “I can’t feel nothin’. Am I cut, where I can’t see?” He presented his back to the man, still craning his neck to look over his shoulder.

The stranger looked up and his eyes widened comically. Englishmen and their modesty. Even in the overcast twilight, Bucky could see the blush crawling up out of the man’s collar. “Er, no,” he said. “You look fit as a fiddle.”

“Good,” Bucky said. “Some daft idiot went out hunting bears and thought, let’s see, why don’t I wear Pict war paint, that’s a good plan. That daft idiot? Would be me. In case you were wondering.”

“I don’t like the way he’s looking at you,” Tony said. “Like he wants to see what you taste like.”

“I had pieced that together, yes,” the stranger agreed. He watched Bucky for a moment longer, then startled and turned back to his work. “This is nearly ready; can you bring the horses over so we can hitch them up?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. He looked between the Englishman and Tony. “He’s not gonna bite me. Wee thing.” But it warmed him, that Tony might be jealous, might actually want to keep Bucky all to himself. Not that Bucky would ever, ever look at another man again. The horses were practically exhausted, and if it were much further than a mile, Bucky wouldn’t want them used, but they’d have to walk it anyway, might as well only be the once.

He gave the horses over to be hitched, checked the bundles of bear, wrapped up in the mangled, muddy hide. It would do. Grabbed up the Englishman’s trunk and propped it on one shoulder.

“Ready?”

The Englishman stared at him, blinking. “You’re... just going to carry that? The whole way?”

“Well, I ain’t carryin’ _you_ , so I hope you can walk,” Bucky said. It wasn’t that heavy. And he was still riding a bit of the woad. Tomorrow, on the other hand, he wasn’t going to want to get out of bed without liberal amounts of whiskey applied.

“...All right, then.” The man petted one of the horses on the nose, whispering to it gently, and then caught up the leads and tugged them into reluctant motion, following him down the road, their hooves barely lifting high enough to clear the mud.

“He’s still looking at you,” Tony muttered, grumpily.

“That’s because I’m impressively strong and brave,” Bucky pointed out.

“Yes, you are.”


	8. Chapter 8

Tony didn’t want to wake up, and he _certainly_ didn’t want to get out of bed; despite the fact that it was June, the morning air was chilly, and the blankets were warm. He tried rolling over and ignoring the sun streaming in his face, but just that movement made him groan. He was stiff all over from the previous evening’s adventure, bruised and aching.

He remembered being a boy, wishing he could go on adventures with Bucky instead of being stuck in the schoolroom day in and day out. But if that was how adventures went, he would be just as glad to never see another.

Slowly, biting the inside of his cheek to stifle his whimpers, he sat up. It took longer to pull on his clothes. Clean clothes felt good. He’d been ready to toss his ruined and muddy rags on the fire, but the innkeeper’s wife had clucked her tongue at him and whisked them away as soon as he’d emerged from the bathing room with them.

He pulled on his boots and laboriously made his way down the stairs to the dining room. The innkeeper beamed at him. “Ah, Mr. Stark--”

Tony waved, but kept walking (limping) toward the door. “I’ll have breakfast as soon as I’ve looked in on the horses,” he promised. He’d paid for a hot mash and a thorough rubdown when they’d arrived; he hoped they were feeling up to the journey up to the castle today.

He got as far as the stable door when he realized something was missing. The rigged cart/sledge he’d put together was gone. And only one of his horses was in the stall.

“What I were tryin’ to tell ye,” the innkeeper said from behind him. “He were up with the sun, went on ahead. Left ye a note.” He held it out, a folded scrap of paper.

The handwriting was large, like a child’s, and as wobbly as the same.

_The Buchanan owes one carriage. One horse. To the Englishman bearing this paper._

“The Buchanan,” Tony read aloud, confused. “Was that...” He looked at the innkeeper. “That was the Buchanan?”

“Aye, it were,” the innkeeper said. “Poor lad, had some hard luck, he has. But the folk, we’re glad he’s back.”

That was... that had been _Bucky?_ How had Tony not-- Well, it had been dark and Tony had been terrified and the man had been more than half-insane and covered with bristly hair all over his face; it was little wonder Tony hadn’t recognized him. But how had he not recognized _Tony?_ Surely Tony hadn’t changed so much, these last few years.

_Indisposed_ , Tony thought. And that put a whole new light on things, didn’t it? If Bucky had... gone mad. Christ. He’d been worried that Bucky had forgotten him, but it seemed Bucky had forgotten... _everything_.

“Whoa, now, hey--” The innkeeper caught Tony’s arm. “Ye look pale, lad. Don’t fall over, now.”

Tony leaned against the wall, dazed, his mind racing in circles. “What... I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’ll-- I can leave the trunk here, yes? I’ll pay for its storage, pick it up on my way back out, but... I need to go. Now.”

“Certainly--” the innkeeper said. “Or I can just have it sent up to you, where are you headed?”

Tony gestured vaguely toward the road. “Castle Buchanan.” He shook himself all over, forced himself to take one thing at a time. “Saddle?” he said. “I’ll send it back with... with whoever you send with my trunk.”

“Of course,” the innkeeper said. “Take what you need, laddie. The castle ain’t hardly going anywhere.”

Tony nodded, mumbled something that he was pretty sure were thanks.

He didn’t really remember saddling the horse or mounting up. He was wearing a riding cloak, but didn’t recall going back to his rented room for it. He hadn’t eaten, at least not that he remembered, and he had no idea how long he was on the road, really, before he saw the castle looming beyond the next hill.

It was beautiful. Bucky had sent him sketches done up by his friend Steve, but they hadn’t captured the weighty majesty of the place, or the vibrant green of the surrounding land.

That might have been his home, Tony thought. He would have crested this very same hill, years ago, and gotten his first look at the place he’d live out the remainder of his life.

Now... He had no idea. The entire future was a blur, utterly unknowable, in a way it had never been before. Even when he’d thought he’d lost Bucky’s affections, he’d seen the path forward, dim and loveless as it was. Now... Nothing. Fog.

He touched his breast pocket, where the letter from the innkeeper rested. There was no way to know the future except living it, he thought, and nudged the horse into picking up its pace.

The gates to the castle were impressive, and guarded. Tony swung off his mount and swallowed the knot in his throat and said, “My name is Tony Stark. I have business with the Buchanan.”

“Let me call the captain,” one of the guards said.

Another came out behind from behind the portcullis, through a narrow door, cautious. “What business have you got? And know this, there’s bowmen in the tower, watching you.”

Tony held up his hands, showing them empty of everything except his horse’s reins. “I’m currently betrothed to him.”

“Come on in, we’ll take your beast ‘round to the stables. Captain’s gonna want to speak with you,” he said.

The interior courtyard was good sized, and there were children playing off to one side, a complicated game involving enormous darts, and no parents around to see that an arm or leg wasn’t removed in the process.

The captain, a handsome-looking man with an oily smirk and dark hair, was puffing himself out as he jogged over to them. “What’s this? I’m Brock Rumlow, the Buchanan’s second.”

Tony couldn’t remember if Bucky had ever mentioned a man named Rumlow before. He didn’t think so; he’d mostly only talked about his sisters or his friend Steve. Tony had no idea what the formal term of address would be for a Scottish Duke’s second-in-command. “Captain,” he settled on, “thank you for meeting me. My name is Tony Stark. I’m betrothed to James Barnes, and I’ve come to see him.”

“Huh,” Rumlow said, scratching at the scruff on his chin. “Huh, well, that’s… problematic. His grace… isn’t well.”

“I’m... aware,” Tony said, schooling his expression, if not his mind, to calm. “We happened to meet upon the road last night. I didn’t realize until this morning that’s who he was. Nevertheless, I’d like to see him.”

“I think you comin’ right now would be a dreadful shock to him, after he’s had so many,” Rumlow said, looking up at one of the Towers. “And he can get pretty rough, when he’s upset. It’d be a terrible thing, if he were to hurt you--”

“Captain Rumlow, don’t you dare finish that sentence,” a woman said, her hair escaping her hat in every direction as she raced across the courtyard. “Tony!” And Tony found himself with an armful of woman with pale blue eyes and black curls and a familiar smile. “And don’t you dare say you don’t remember me or I will kick you in the shin, Tony Stark.”

“Becca,” Tony said, pulling her close in relief. “How could I possibly forget you?”

“Miss Barnes--”

“Captain,” Becca said, gently detangling herself from Tony, “if you wish me to reconsider your proposal with any amount of seriousness, you will _shut your gob right now._ Tony is my guest and I’ll see to settling him in the castle. Unless you wish to argue _my_ fitness for the job?”

“No, ma’am, of course not,” the Captain said, giving her a sharp nod.

“Good. Go do… manly things. Knock someone down, or push something over. Whatever it is you do.” Becca grabbed hold of Tony’s wrist and started dragging him back toward the keep.

“What’s happening?” Tony wondered aloud. “Bec-- Miss Barnes, I’m sorry, it’s been so long and we were children the last time we met--”

“Becca is fine, no one keeps to English manners around here,” she said. “Come on, this way, before someone sees you. Anyone else sees you. This castle buzzes likes a beehive, these days. It won’t be long, and then there’ll be hell to pay. Again. Sharon! _Sharon_! Where is that girl? Sharon! Bring tea and breakfast to my sitting room and be quick about it!”

Tony let Becca pull him along in her wake. “Why... will there be hell to pay?” he asked cautiously. “Becca, what’s _happened?_ ”

“ _Everything’s_ happened,” Becca said. “I tried to write to you some four times, but Rumlow kept stopping th’ post. No one told you anything, you poor man, what a fright this has to have been. Might have been worse for us, but for you not to know? Horrible, and I’m frightfully sorry. Look, sit, sit. I don’t know how there’s an easy way to say it-- Captain Rumlow, and my brother, and Steve Rogers led a raid against one of Hydra’s lairs in the north. Captain Rumlow was the only one to make it back.”

She took a deep breath. “We… Rumlow said they died; the bridge blew and they were still on it, and a hundred feet down the gorge, he was wounded himself, he only barely made it back.” She licked her teeth, considering her words. “Three months ago, we discovered how wrong we were when James and Steven came up to the gate with near to fifty other men, wounded, sick. They’d been prisoners of Hydra for _two years_ , and we never knew to look for them.”

Tony covered his mouth with his hands. “Oh, God... Prisoner? For two-- How did-- No, that will wait, I... Oh, _God_ , Becca. Is that why...” He bit his lip. “I met him, last night. I didn’t recognize him at all, and he... he didn’t know me, either.”

“No, I expect not,” Becca said. A girl came in with a tea tray and poured. “Thank you, Sharon.” She offered the cup to Tony. “Have some breakfast, you look dreadful pale.”

“I don’t think that’s the lack of food,” Tony said shakily, but he sipped the tea anyway. It was good. Not the best, but still rich and earthy.  “What can I do?”

“I’m very glad you’re here,” Becca said. “Maybe you can help him. Everyone -- _everyone_ , even Steve! -- thinks he’s half-mad. Talking to people who aren’t there. But what can they expect, he’s been treated abominably. Steve-- Steve says he lost the arm in the initial accident. Before they were captured. And it-- the wound got infected, of course, Steve had to do it, even though he blames himself.”

_Jesus_. Would Tony have even half the courage that must have taken? “What about the...” He gestured to his own arm. “The false arm? What did Hydra _do_ to them?”

Becca gazed at him over her cup of tea, sympathy in her eyes. “James… Bucky… he says _you_ made it for him.”

Tony blinked. “Me? But I haven’t seen him in five years, Becca. I haven’t even _heard_ from him in three! He... he told me last night that his... his husband made it for him.” Tony frowned, looking at the stray tea leaves swirling in his cup. “He talked like his husband was _dead_.”

“I know,” Becca said. “The captain… worries. He thinks James isn’t fit to be the Buchanan any longer. And Rumlow’s been running the Clan in James’ place. I supported-- I supported him. In theory. We needed someone, didn’t we? Even if-- well, the village pastor wouldn’t agree to the match, without-- He wouldn’t sign the death certificate for James, either. For myself, I’m relieved, but I was going to, as soon as I turned twenty-one. For the Clan. We needed leadership.”

And that made sense. Few of the peerage wed solely for themselves; Tony and Bucky had been unbelievably lucky that their match had blossomed into love. Tony nodded his understanding. “But then he came back,” he said. “And he’s... not right.”

“No, he’s not, but he’s harmless,” Becca said. “Rumlow talks ridiculous, but James wouldn’t hurt anyone, _he wouldn’t hurt you_. He loves you. He’s… he thinks you’re dead. I don’t know, someone in that awful place told him you were dead and he believes that. Thinks… thinks your ghost is haunting him. And… look, even if my brother is mad, you-- _you_ could lead the Clan.”

“Me?” Tony set his cup down quickly before his shaking hands could slosh tea all over himself. “I don’t know anything about leading a Clan, Becca!”

“Well, of course you’d need advice,” she said, primly. “But I can’t imagine it’s much harder than running a business. I’d back you. Steve will back you, if he knows what’s good for him. And, aside that, he hates Rumlow. He’d rather see the pig boy as Clan head than Rumlow. The captain means well-- or at least, I keep telling myself that. But Rumlow’s a bully. More impressed with power than responsibility.”

The politics of the situation weren’t hard to sketch out, even with the limited information Tony had. “Even if you and Steve would back me, Rumlow certainly won’t, not if he wants the power himself. And he’s got the guards.”

“And James has the gratitude of fifty former Hydra slaves, and their families that have come here to live, once we got word out. We could do it,” Becca said, excited. “And I just, I know it, James will get better, you’re here, you’re finally here, and _he’ll get better._ ”

“This is... a lot to take in,” Tony admitted. “Give me some time to think about it. I came here expecting...” He shook his head.

Becca raised an eyebrow. “You came to break the betrothal,” she said, more than asked. “Is… is there someone else?”

“No,” Tony said, perhaps more vehemently than he’d meant to. “I’m not sure there ever _could_ be someone else for me. But I... inherited. Last year. And I thought, if he didn’t want me anymore, then I should... free us both. If only so we could declare our heirs.”

“I’m so sorry,” Becca said. “Rumlow… there’s a stipend, you know, that comes to the Castle, as part of your betrothal. We… needed the money. He said if you knew James was dead, your father would cut that off, and then-- I should have tried harder to contact you. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Tony caught up her hand and kissed her fingers. “You were doing the best you could,” he said. “And think, if I’d had word he was dead, then I wouldn’t be here now.” He took a shaky breath. “I’ll try to help. Can I see him?”

“Yes, let’s… let’s do that,” Becca said. She stood up and tried in vain to pat her hair back into something resembling shapely. “Come on. He’s usually in the tower.”

***

“It’s a nice view, but I’ve seen it before,” Tony said.

Bucky ignored him. Or pretended to ignore him. He couldn’t really ever stop paying attention to everything that Tony said, or the flicker of emotion on his face, or the sound of his voice. But he could not react to it.

Tony was a ghost, he was a ghost, and the sooner Bucky could accept that, the better off everyone would be.

He liked the tower; the very top room.

It had been glazed, once, when Bucky was a child, but several of the windows were broken, and the floor was filthy. The rafters were home to dozens of ravens, who gathered in a dark cloud around the castle sometimes.

But he could see. He could see everything.

No longer caged in, like an animal. He could see the sun and the sky and grass and trees and animals and--

A rider, coming up the road.

“Oh, it’s that one,” Tony sneered. “I told you, he was looking at you.”

“Don’t be daft,” Bucky said, then bit his lip. Dammit, he’d meant to keep quiet. “Just an Englishman, it’s nothing to worry about.”

He’d had one of the footmen drag a huge, heavy oak chair up the spiral stairs so Bucky could sit up here and look out. He adjusted the replacement arm; the plain one he wore for everyday use, just a carved wooden replacement. Something to fill a sleeve, with crude, carved wooden fingers. The skin around his stump had been badly bruised; the bear, he supposed.

He couldn’t remember much about the fight with the bear.

Truth, he couldn’t remember anything, except the way the Englishman had looked, pale and beautiful in the rain.

“He looks familiar,” Bucky said.

“No, no he doesn’t,” Tony said. “You don’t know him. You don’t need to. I’m everything you need, all the English you need.”

“Shut up, ghost, you’re not real,” Bucky told him.

It didn’t stop Tony from laughing at him. “You don’t really want me to go.”

No, Bucky didn’t.

“James?”

“Becca. What?” Bucky didn’t turn around, didn’t rise to greet her. He just stared out at his lands, at the Clan’s land.

“I-- uh… I brought someone,” she said, “that you’ll want to see.”

Bucky sighed. Visitors. Ones that had actually climbed the Tower stairs. He heaved himself to his feet. “What do you want of me--” He stopped short, staring.

And then glanced at Tony.

And back at the stranger.

“No.”

The stranger cocked his head, just the way Tony did. “No? No, what?”

“No, Becca, no, take… take him away. I don’t know what games you’re playing at, but don’t… don’t do this to me.”

He couldn’t look, he couldn’t stand here and look at that man.

“It’s fine, honey, I’m here,” Tony said. “I’m right here, you _know_ that.”

“It’s _not_ fine!”

“No, it’s not,” the stranger said. “But it could be. Bucky, please, _look_ at me.”

“No, no, you’re not real, neither of you are real, and I’m starting to have my doubts about my sister’s place in the world, because she would not do this to me,” Bucky cried. “You’re not real, you’re not here, _none of this is happening_.”

Tony scoffed. “I’m real,” he said, examining his fingernails. “I’m real. I’m here for you, like I’ve always been right here, for you. Everything you’ve ever wanted. Don’t worry about this pretender. I’ll take care of you. Keep you safe.”

The stranger’s eyes were glistening with tears. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore, Bucky. I didn’t know. I’d have... I’d have done _something_ , if I knew.”

“Don’t you call me that,” Bucky snapped. “You don’t have the right. Becca, get him out of here.”

“James Barnes, don’t you--”

“Don’t. Don’t tell me what to do, don’t tell me what you think I should do,” Bucky said. “Half the clan thinks I’m insane. You want me locked back up somewhere? Is that what you want?”

“No, no, James, of course not, but-- look, it really is Tony, do you think I wouldn’t know him?”

Bucky stopped, examined the man very carefully. Turned back to look at Tony. “It can’t possibly be,” Bucky said.

“Why not?” the man asked, very softly.

“Because Tony is dead,” Bucky replied. “He’s dead and… and I’m… and I killed him. That’s why he’s haunting me.”

Bucky jerked his head to one side, he couldn’t look at that man anymore. He bolted for the stairs and nearly pitched off the rail, and wouldn’t that have been the perfect end to his life? But he recovered and grabbed the railing with his good hand, scrambling down as fast as he could go. As if he could ever outrun his guilt.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Becca was wringing her hands. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I thought... I thought he’d _see_ you, I thought--”

“It’s all right,” Tony said, more mechanically than because anything at all was all right. He looked around the small room, dusty and filthy and drafty, the floor spotted with bird shit, furnished with only a single chair that faced out a broken window. Christ, Bucky spent most of his time _here?_ “We’ll... We’ll figure something out.”

Tony scrubbed his hands over his face. He _knew_ Bucky hadn’t recognized him last night, and thought he’d been braced for it to happen again. He hadn’t been ready for Bucky to so utterly _deny_ him, though. Why? Why would he cling so tightly to such a terrible story?

The worst had been that moment when he’d actually thought Bucky had recognized him, those beautiful eyes widening with a spark of understanding and hope-- only to die again a heartbeat later.

“It’s... been a long couple of days,” Tony finally said from behind his hands. “I hate to impose, but... do you have somewhere I could rest for a while? The inn will be sending my trunk along soon, I imagine.”

“Yes, yes, of course, I’ll have Sharon make up a room for you, whatever you need, it’s… it’s yours. All of it, you know. The-- the whole castle, it’s… it was supposed to be yours.” Becca hitched in a breath and straightened her back. “We’ll… we’ll figure this out.”

“Probably best if it’s somewhere that I won’t cross his path,” Tony suggested. “At least for now.” He took a deep breath and looked out the window. If he focused on the view and not the room itself, it was beyond beautiful. It was a place he’d be proud to call home... if Bucky didn’t kick him out.

He turned back toward the stair and felt himself sway. He had to grab the railing to keep from sliding down to the steps. “I... I think I may visit the kitchens, while my room is being prepared,” he said. “I might need that breakfast, after all.”

“Ach!” Becca complained. “You two are absolutely _made_ for each other, neither of you eats until you’re near to starved.”

“Not true,” Tony said, feeling a spark of grim humor. “He ate the bear’s liver last night, entirely unprompted.”

“Come on, then,” Becca said. “Get you settled in th’ kitchens and then go placate Brock, before he raises hell all over the castle. Which you owe me for, I do not want to marry that man, but I will if I must. So you’d best keep me out of this mess.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Tony promised. “Maybe you should imply to him that I came up here to break the betrothal,” he suggested. “That should keep the captain from prying too deeply while we work out what to do.”

The kitchens in the castle made the one at Stark Manor look tiny.

Four huge stone fireplaces housed spits of meat, hooks for pots, racks for bread. An entire garden of herbs were hung upside down over a butcher block that could have been used to debone a cow.

A woman with red lips and dishwater curls surveyed the place, giving soft voiced orders that everyone listened to. “This is Miss Angie, our head cook. Angie, this is… this is Anthony Stark. The Buchanan’s betrothed. See him well-fed and comfortable, if you’d be so kind.”

Angie looked at Tony as if he were a snack she was getting ready to serve.

Tony would be lying if he said he’d never seen that sort of look directed his way before, but it didn’t get much easier with practice. Still Ana had taught him some measure of politeness for the staff. “Ma’am. I don’t want to be any trouble, just find me some bread and cheese and an out of the way corner.”

“I got half a rhubarb pie and a half a bottle of gin in my office, if you want to see which one’ll make you sick faster,” she said, with a quick, friendly smile. “Otherwise it’s eggs’n toast. And some cold bacon. Jam, if you want it. Breakfast’s just done and won’t be time for supper for hours yet.”

“Eggs and toast would be perfect,” Tony said, watching Becca depart, obviously confident that she’d left Tony in good hands. _Don’t get above yourself,_ Ana scolded in Tony’s memory, and he smiled a little, remembering. “Thank you.”

She must have decided that Tony needed more feeding up than that, because the wooden plate she had someone bring him was more than adequately filled. Toast and eggs, baked beans, and a flat, pancake-like thing that was apparently made out of potato. Along with a cup of black -- very black -- coffee.

“If you please,” the boy said, “sit yourself over here, an’ just holler if you need more coffee.”

“I will,” Tony assured the boy. “What’s your name?”

“It’s RJ, sir. Reginald, Junior.” He gave Tony a quick salute and scurried off into the scullery.

As Tony was mopping up the last of his yolk with his toast, a skinny twig of a man came into the kitchen. “Ang, do you have any chamomile? Mites got into mine, and-- hello, then, who are you?” That came out suspiciously and the man balled up a fist, ready to fight, but if he could beat RJ at boxing, much less Tony, Tony would eat his own hat.

He stood up. “Tony Stark,” he said, and was gratified at the way the man’s eyes rounded. “And you can only be Steve Rogers.”

“And here I was hoping I’d never have to hear about _you_ again,” Steve said. “Buck never shuts up about you.”

Tony spread his hands. “Becca thinks we can convince him I’m not dead,” he said. “The first attempt did... not go well.”

“I bet,” Steve snorted. “Oh, thank you, Ang, you’re a dream, I’ll save you a dance.” He took the bundle of dried flowers and rolled them very gently into a piece of cheesecloth.

“You can’t dance, Steven,” she said, bumping him with her hip and Steve almost fell over.

“I can dance,” Steve protested. “I just need the right partner.”

“Sure,” Angie said, “but where’re you going to find a woman with even less grace than you?” Her eyes twinkled as she sailed back to her duties.

Tony gestured to the little table where he’d been eating. “Sit with me a while?” he offered. “I’d like... Well, no, not _like_ , but I think I _need_ to know a little more about what happened to Bucky.”

“He lost his arm,” Steve said, dully. “And then he lost his freedom, and his dignity, and then his mind. What’s to tell?” He scrubbed at his face, leaving a smudge of pollen behind.

“When did he start seeing me?” Tony asked.

“Almost immediately,” Steve said. “The-- it was my stupid idea. They were chasing us as decoys, there was a bridge, a little. You know, two ropes, some boards and a lot of prayers? Practically. We. I. I blew it up. Buck was… not quite halfway when a shooter got him, just above the elbow. I went back to get him and the charges went.”

Tony nodded. “Becca said Rumlow told everyone you two fell into the ravine.”

“Yeah, well, what the cowardly son of a bitch forgot to mention is that we weren’t dead, and he looked over the edge and he _saw_ that, and decided to turn tail and run anyway,” Steve snarled. “Not that anyone believes me. I’m just the medic, what do I know? Not what you asked. Sorry. Still pissed about that. Uh… he started asking for you almost as soon as he was awake again. Tony this, Tony that, at least Tony’s safe. Ug, I woulda punched him in the mouth if he didn’t already have bones sticking out through his arm. I had to amputate with a _kitchen knife_ , and all he can think about is you being safe?”

Guilt twisted through Tony’s gut. He pushed it aside, for now. It wouldn’t help. “He was seeing me even before you were captured?”

“I don’t know,” Steve said. “He talked about you for a while, and then… he was talking _to_ you. _Introduced_ you to people. He was hurt, though, pretty bad. People let it go, we didn’t… I thought he was going to die. Dozens of times. And I used it-- I used it. That he was seeing you. To keep him going. He couldn’t die now, what about Tony? What would Tony think if he just gave up now? I didn’t know what else to do, I was treating gangrene and dysentery with weak tea and dirty bandages.”

“No, that was smart,” Tony said. “Anything you had at hand, to keep him alive, I’m grateful for.”

“But, uh… he didn’t start thinking you were dead until the very end there,” Steve said. Hesitantly. “We were starting a plan, to get out. It was spring, and Buck… he wanted to get home before the end of May. That’s what he kept saying. ‘Stevie, it’s almost May, I promised.’”

“Well that’s... that’s true,” Tony said, tears filling his eyes and turning Steve into a straw-colored blur. “He did promise that. That we’d be married as soon as I was able, right after my birthday.”

“Oh, is that what it was? He never did say what it was he’d promised,” Steve said. “But he was stronger. We made--” Steve made a noise like a laugh that had been strangled. “He said _you_ made it. _You_ designed it, you talked him through every step of the way. Measure it, and measure it again. Only got one chance at it. I thought it was crazy, but it was… it was good crazy. It was crazy that could work. Hydra, they were used to him being crippled and half useless and all crazy. They only kept him alive…” Steve wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “They didn’t know who he was. But… but we knew. We all knew. They kept him alive because he kept everyone in line. The mine was more efficient. The workers… he was a good foreman. Everyone respected him, respected the bloodline.”

Tony closed his eyes. Bucky had been good with people, it was true. He had a gift for it. Tony had seen that, even in the little time they had together.

“So, uh, they let us try it, the arm. And Buck… he had several of them made, they just… screw right into that socket. One of them… one of them was hollow and we were filling it up. With little scraps of saltpeter and metal shavings. We were gonna make a bomb. That was the plan. It was a good plan.”

“Was?” Tony braced his hands on the table and made himself meet Steve’s eyes.

“One of the Hydra-- bosses, I don’t know how they’re organized. He wasn’t a guard, or a soldier, but he had some authority. Little bug-eyed monster of a man. Zola, they called him. He used to come around and watch us, sometimes. Like we were better than a play. He heard Buck… erm. Talking to you. He did that. He’d… listen. And learn. And get right under your skin. Hell, it was worse’n gettin’ whipped, listening to that man talk. Flay you alive, he would if he could. He… he figured it out, that Buck was seein’ things.

“So, we’re days away from our plan, and he comes out, with two big guards, and has Buck dragged out of our cage, throws him down there, on the floor, in front of all of us. Just in the center, where we can’t reach him. And just starts in on him. How you’re not real, and you’re just a ghost, and you must be, he must deserve to be haunted. It was awful, terrible stuff, and Buck was… he was screaming and struggling. And every time he tried to get to his feet, one of those guards would kick him or hit him.”

Steve stared over Tony’s shoulder, not seeing him anymore. Not seeing anything, except something that had happened months ago, in a terrible place.

Tony chewed on his lip, but Steve didn’t resume his story. “So this... Zola convinced him that I was dead,” Tony prompted, and Steve started a little, like he’d forgotten Tony was even there. “God, what a... what a terrible thing to do to someone. How... How did you actually get out, then?”

“Zola suggested… he told Buck that you died because you killed yourself,” Steve choked. “That Buck had-- hurt you, and you killed yourself. Because of him. Buck went… he went insane. I mean that, not harmless talking to a hallucination -- we were all kinda used to that by then -- but actually insane. _Berserk_. He… uh… he lunged for Zola and. I don’t know. It shouldn’t have been possible. We were underfed, weak. And yet he killed all three of those men. Zola first, bashed his face in with the… with the arm. And then the guard, with his own gun. And the other one. I don’t know what would have happened, but-- he threw me the keys. There was just enough confusion… just enough time. We lost three men. Buck… Buck saved almost all of us.”

Pride swelled alongside the guilt and heartache. Of course Bucky had saved those men. Bucky would never do anything less. Tony wiped away the tears on his face. “And you came home, and Rumlow -- who left you to die -- was running things,” Tony summarized. “Sniffing around Bucky’s oldest sister, looking for some kind of legitimacy, I expect. You didn’t tell Bucky to dropkick the guy off a cliff?”

“We were in prison for two years,” Steve said reluctantly. “For _two years_. And Rumlow was running the show the whole time. Herds have multiplied. Crops were brought in. Hunts were organized. Raids against Hydra went in, came out. It doesn’t matter that I hate him. _He did a good job_. Buck gave him second in command. He’s the captain now. Clan first. Like it should be. I don’t think Buck likes him much either, or he would have… ordered the wedding.”

Tony sighed. It was going to be a lot harder to break Rumlow’s hold on the Clan if many of them thought Rumlow was a good leader. Especially if the proposed alternative was a scrawny Englishman. They _had_ to get Bucky back, somehow. Convince him that Tony was real, not dead.

“Why didn’t he just have you two declared dead?” Tony wondered. “Becca said something about the priest refusing, but... you were gone for two years.”

Steve actually laughed. “Because the parish priest is Robert Proctor.” Like that meant anything, but-- hadn’t Bucky said something once, about Becca kissing… about Becca kissing the Proctor boy?

“And Becca asked him not to,” Tony surmised. He shoved his fingers through his hair. “Thanks for telling me everything,” he said. “If you have any ideas of how we can convince Bucky I’m real, feel free to tell me. Just walking up to him did not go well.”

Steve shrugged. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Act like a ghost? I mean, just… be where he can see you. Talk to him like… like everything’s fine, and normal, and… maybe you can just replace the voice in his head.”

“That sounds like the _worst_ idea,” Tony complained. “If he thinks I’m a ghost, he won’t actually, you know, _marry me_. Which puts a definite crimp in Becca’s plans.”

Steve sighed, blowing air all over the place that messed up the smudge of pollen that was still on his cheek. Great. Tony was in over his head and his only allies were a spitfire medic, his betrothed’s cranky sister, and the head chef who probably just wanted to stuff him and serve him for dinner. Could this get any worse?

“I don’t know. I think the… I think the next move is in Bucky’s hands. See what he does. He’s up in that damn tower all day anyway, he’ll know you haven’t left.”

Tony bit his lip, turning over ideas in his mind. “All right,” he said. “I’ll figure something out. Actually... If I were going to request a couple of maids and a footman to help me out for a couple of hours, who should I talk to?” The first thing he was going to do was get that damned tower room cleaned up. If Bucky was going to sit up there all day, at least it could actually be a pleasant place to be.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to my future wife, as soon as she stops telling me no,” Steve said. “She’s the head housekeeper around here, and if you want anything done at all, you need to be on Peggy Carter’s good side.”


	10. Chapter 10

Bucky stared around his sanctuary like his whole damn castle had been invaded, because-- it had.

There was a distinct lack of corvids nesting in the rafters, although one big specimen was just outside the window, eyeing his former haven suspiciously.

Bucky didn’t blame him. The floor had been swept and scrubbed and a rug had been laid down. A nice one, one of the ones his father’s father back to the Crusades had brought back from Persia. It was red, with yellow and green flowers.

The fireplace had been emptied, and someone had apparently been up the chimney because there was a fire laid out, blazing.

There were cushions in his damn chair, which was, at least, still where he’d left it.

And the windows.

The windows were still smashed out.

Miracles had limits, Bucky decided.

Or something.

“Oh, this is nice,” Tony said. He didn’t sit. Or touch the pillows, but he looked like he was thinking about it.

Bucky was an inch away from throwing it all out the window, chair included.

Which would probably stove the roof in on the stables, and the horses would not appreciate it. “It’s not _nice_ ,” Bucky snorted. “It’s…” He floundered around for a word for it. “...meddlesome.”

“Someone cares about your comfort,” Tony pointed out. “Heavens, we should go to war over it.”

“Your sarcasm is gonna get you in trouble one of these days.”

“I thought you liked the mouth on me,” Tony said, going all the way from sarcastic to coy coquette in a wink.

Bucky swallowed, looked away. He hadn’t touched Tony in years. He didn’t even try. Sometimes, rarely, Tony would touch him. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Thorough cleaning had stirred up the dust, he told himself.

He wanted to sit in his chair and think, and there were…. There were goddamn cushions in his chair!

Bucky picked one up and threw it out the window.

He considered the other and the roaring fireplace.

“No, please don’t do that,” Tony said. “Burning feathers _stink_ , and really, no. Just… don’t. Do that.”

“I ain’t sitting on it.”

“Of course not, you’re the Duke of Buchanan, and you’re going to get boils on your backside with the utmost dignity.”

The other cushion joined the first, out the window.

It was worth it, sitting on the hard wood chair, and listening to Tony laugh at him.

That faint glow of warmth was doused when footsteps on the stairs announced a visitor, too heavy to be Becca or Steve, who were usually the only ones who bothered to come up here after him.

Sure enough, a moment later, Becca’s stranger came in. He was carrying an end table and had several books tucked under his arm. He paused when he saw Bucky, then came on in anyway. “Good morning, your grace,” he said pleasantly. He set the little table not by Bucky’s chair, but in a nook near the fireplace, where it would be shielded from the weather coming in through the windows.

“Is it?” Bucky looked back out the window. “It’s hard to tell sometimes. I didn’t see the sky. Ever. So they-- they all seem like good days. Everyone else thinks I’m mad.”

“Mm,” the stranger hummed thoughtfully. “Well, if you are mad, it’s not for that reason. I think I’d want to see the sky, too, after something like that. And surround myself with nice, clean things instead of living in discomfort and squalor.” He looks around curiously. “There were cushions for the chair, I could have sworn...”

Bucky held up his hand. “I didn’t burn it, you don’t get to be upset about it.” What did it even matter, anyway?

“He’s looking at you again,” Tony hissed. “I don’t like that.”

“He is not,” Bucky said, then turned on the stranger, who was tentatively peeking out over the windowsill with a somewhat resigned expression. “Are you?”

“Am I what?” he asked, distractedly. He was looking at the cushions on the roof of the stable. “Wrong colors?”

“See? He’s looking out the window, nothing to get your knickers in a twist over,” Bucky said. He might as well talk to Tony as not. Everyone knew he was as mad as a march hare. It drove everyone away, eventually, even when he tried to hide it. This stranger would probably run faster than most.

“I thought Scots didn’t wear knickers,” the stranger said, and then he _did_ look at Bucky with a sly little smile. “If you don’t like cushions, how would you feel about a blanket? It must get drafty up here.”

Bucky chewed his lip for a minute. “I… don’t know what to do with all that stuff, anymore. I sleep on the floor. I feel-- I feel like the bed’s gonna drown me.”

“Why are you telling him anything about you?” Tony demanded. “What is this, he looks a little-- a little bit like me, and now you’re getting soft?”

“So go stand over next to him,” Bucky snapped, suddenly angry. It… it felt good to talk to someone. Why did Tony have to be so upset, it wasn’t like… “Go stand next to him and let me see.”

The stranger turned completely away from the window and leaned against the sill, letting his hands fall easily by his side. “Are we playing compare and contrast?” he asked. “Or beauty contest? I’m at a disadvantage there; I didn’t sleep much last night.”

“Tony’s always beautiful, there’s no contest,” Bucky said, mouth running by rote.

Tony was pouting, the way he could when Bucky upset him. It was an adorable expression and always made Bucky want to taste it. He hadn’t kissed Tony since that night in the schoolroom and that was a damn shame. And he wasn’t moving, either. Making it a choice. Bucky could either look at Tony, or look at the stranger, but not at the same time.

“Well, that’s good,” the stranger said. “Takes the pressure off me, then.” He watched Bucky for a moment, then went back to the little table and arranged the books on it carefully. “What kinds of things does your ghost say to you?”

“Depends,” Bucky said. “If he’s mad at me or not. He’s pretty mad right now, that’s for sure. He… uh…” He rubbed at the back of his neck fitfully, fingers getting tangled up in his hair. He really should consider cutting his hair and getting a shave. He couldn’t do those things for himself, though, and the thought of letting someone else near his neck with a razor made him want to puke. “He thinks you’re interested in me.”

The stranger hummed thoughtfully. “Well, he’s not entirely wrong, is he? I did show up to talk to you, didn’t I? It upsets him? I’d think, being dead, he’d be beyond... earthly cares.”

“Don’t say it, don’t you--”

“We never did,” Bucky said, regret coloring his tone. “We never-- I wanted to, but. The time wasn’t right, and then there wasn’t any time at all. And there won’t… _ever_. Be anyone else.” That seemed to soothe Tony at least, who uncrossed his arms and looked smug.

The stranger didn’t seem disturbed by that. “That’s... that’s very sweet,” he said. “I admire that.” He took a breath, a little deeper than he needed to, and shook his head, though what that meant, Bucky didn’t know. “Well. I’ve done all I can for this place for now. I’ll leave you to your contemplations.”

“Sure,” Bucky said. He paused, then turned, just in time to watch the stranger walking away. “Uh?” The man stopped and looked back over his shoulder. Bucky couldn’t seem to move his eyes, and for once, Tony wasn’t saying a goddamn word. _It couldn’t be possible._

“Yes, your grace? Was there something you wanted?”

“Could… uh… would you ask Carter to send up some breakfast? I think… I think I’m a little hungry, actually.”

The man smiled, and lord, he _did_ look like Tony when he did that, so much that it ached. “I’d be delighted to,” he said. He nodded deeply, not quite a bow, and then turned back away.

Bucky watched him until he was gone, and then sat down in his chair and stared out the window. Tony… was nowhere to be seen. Which didn’t bother Bucky all that much. He’d be back.

He stared out the window, but what he was seeing was the world’s most perfect set of buttocks, lined in tight English breeches. It wasn’t possible, but-- there was no denying it. Bucky played the moment over in his head, and over. He barely noticed when one of the maids brought up a breakfast tray. He ate what was on the plate, drank everything in the cup. Noticed exactly none of it, except for how soon it seemed to be gone.

And realized he’d never asked the stranger’s name.

***

The stableboys thought he was hilarious.

The first day that Tony had come out to the stable and asked for a ladder so he could climb up on the roof, they’d simply stared at him. “Look,” he’d said, pointing up at the top of the tower with its broken windows. “He threw things down, and they landed here, and I rather suspect Ms. Carter will be less than pleased if I simply leave them up there to rot.” The invocation of Peggy Carter’s name sent the boys scrambling, and two of them eventually came back with a long ladder.

Tony came back the next day for the same purpose. _And_ the day after that. It was getting so the stableboys were shirking their duties so they could loiter in the yard until Tony arrived, just waiting for him to show up and ask for the ladder again.

Bucky didn’t want cushions on his chair, it seemed, no matter their color or firmness. Fine. Though he might’ve just _said_ , rather than tossing them out the window. Or thrown them down the tower stairs, where they’d be easier to fetch. Maybe watching Tony climb up on the stable roof was as amusing to Bucky as it was to the stableboys. But it was getting a bit tiresome for Tony.

So the fourth day, Tony brought up a blanket instead, knitted from the softest lambs’ wool Tony had ever felt, dyed a beautiful, rich green. Tony left it folded over the arm of the chair, then arranged a lovely silver bowl on the little table beside the books, filled with nuts in their shells and early apples. Maybe Bucky would eat a little more, if he didn’t have to leave the room for it.

Becca had promised to take him down to the village soon, to speak with the glazer about new windows, but the room still looked sad and empty. Tony stepped back to eye the walls critically. Maybe there was some art stored somewhere that he could have hung. Something that could withstand the elements -- carvings, perhaps, or metalwork.

There was a heavy step on the stairs, and a moment later, a tangle of wild hair poked over the edge, and Bucky followed it. He had a bag over his shoulder and a replacement arm that Tony hadn’t seen before; the faded linen shirt Bucky wore had the sleeve removed, probably to keep the jointed parts of the arm from catching the fabric. It wasn’t as workable as a real arm, but it was clever, with a jointed elbow and another for the wrist, and a cluster of padded metal fingers that could open and close with a twist.

“Anthony,” Bucky muttered, more resigned than irritable. He dropped the bag onto the chair, gave the blanket a scathing glance, but at least didn’t pitch it out the window right away. He twisted the fingers into a loose clamp position and started rummaging around in the bag, bringing out what could only be described as knick-knacks. “Thought-- these might look nice. On the mantelpiece.”

Warmth flooded Tony’s chest, and his heart kicked harder for a few beats. Bucky was taking interest in his surroundings. It was a step, anyhow. “I was just thinking the room needed a little decoration,” he said. “What did you bring?”

“Things,” Bucky said. He turned, using the clamp hand to hold out what looked like a little carving of a duck. “I… I made this when I was fourteen, maybe? Keep thinking a little whittle might help, if I can get this damn arm to hold still long enough-- the joint, you know. It doesn’t stay, if I keep pushing at it.”

Another piece, a rock, but when Tony turned it over, it was hollow on the inside and filled with purple and blue crystal.

“Oh, this is lovely,” Tony said. He put it on the mantle and turned it this way and that, trying for the best angle to catch the morning sun. He considered the problem of Bucky’s arm, too, and wondered if Bucky would be offended if he tried to sketch out a few designs for it.

Bucky made a noise, soft and somehow sad, and then offered Tony -- a little metal bear, paws lifted over its head. “It-- it, uh, it broke. Years ago, really. I don’t know, the maid--” Bucky snorted. “You know, I always said that. That the maid must have knocked it over. Because I didn’t want to admit… that I dropped it. I dropped it and it broke, and I blamed someone else for it.”

Tony took the little thing in shaking hands, remembering that Christmas -- it seemed so long ago, now. He swallowed hard against a sob. That Bucky had kept it, even after it had broken... “You--” It came out as a croak. He coughed, pushing back the tears, and tried again. “It... must mean a lot to you.” He set it gingerly on the mantle, in the very center. The poor thing. He wondered if he could borrow a set of jeweler’s tools and fix it. Surely, Bucky would appreciate that.

There were a few more things in Bucky’s bag, a little inked sketch that had obviously been done by Steve on the inside of a finely carved bowl, just a couple of fish swimming in the bowl. “Part of a game we used to play, I don’t even know if there were rules, just… we’d let it float in the loch and throw rocks in it, til it sank. S’wonder we never lost it. Things. Father would have called ‘em useless.”

Bucky turned to look out the window again. “Father never spent more than a year in a cage, metal bars for walls and cold stone floor with one blanket for four men. Never seeing anything pretty or useless at all. We made game tokens out of buttons from our shirts, so we could play chess on scraped lines in the dirt.”

Tony had thought his heart couldn’t ache any more, but he’d been wrong. “My father didn’t care much for this sort of thing, either,” he said. “But Ana always told me, if something gives you pleasure or satisfaction, then that’s its purpose. That’s enough.”

Bucky gestured to the room, the artificial arm almost as expressive as Bucky’s flesh hand. “Does _this--_ give you satisfaction? Bringing comfort to a madman?”

“I don’t think you’re mad,” Tony said. “I think you’re in pain. And yes, it does. Helping you is--” _Is what I have always been meant for_ , he thought. “It helps me, too.”

“Well, then, that’s enough,” Bucky said. “Ain’t it? Enough. Go on, Anthony. I want to think.” He picked up the blanket and rubbed it against his cheek, still barely visible around that great hedge of a beard. A glint of mischief in those blue eyes, and for just a moment, Tony was _positive_ the blanket was going to go sailing right out the window, just like the cushions. And then Bucky grumbled something, sat down-- and spread the blanket over his knees.

Tony turned away before Bucky could see his smile. “I hope to see you at supper, your grace.” He left, clutching tightly to his own thoughts, the precious glimpses of the Bucky he loved, and letting his mind race ahead. Becca would be at her sewing, this time of the day; she would doubtless know where Tony could find the tools he needed.

***

Bucky waited in the servant’s stair until he was certain that the Englishman -- _call me Anthony if you must call me something_ \-- was gone.

He’d had enough of that one, for the day. The way Bucky felt, whenever he looked at the man, and the way Tony seemed to get angry. And faded. Tony was faded, almost-- like a letter that had been read too much and the ink was smeary. Bucky wasn’t sure he liked that. Wasn’t Tony the only thing he had?

_The rock I’m building my life upon_.

And if Tony was fading, then what did Bucky have left at all? One arm, half a Clan, the money running low. They’d needed the Stark fortune. Everything good in Bucky’s life had been based on _need_.

But that wasn’t so bad. Steak and kidney pie was a fine thing, made from need.

“You don’t have to do this,” Tony said. “I think you look well enough.”

“I look like an animated haystack,” Bucky said. It was easier to look in the mirror when he could barely see himself through the thick matted hair. “I look like the village lunatic.”

“There are lovely things we could do in a haystack,” Tony pointed out, flirting again. Bucky ignored that. He couldn’t make love to a ghost.

“Becca?” He stepped into his sister’s sitting room. “I wonder if ye might give me a hand here.” He laughed, a rough croak of it. Give him a hand. He was having to ask so much of people, all the time. It was galling.

Becca looked up at him, startled, but recovered quickly. “Of course, James,” she said quickly. She tucked her needle in the cloth and wiped her hands on her skirts. “Whate’er ye need.”

Deep breath. His sister would never, ever hurt him. Not intentionally. Not for _real_. “I…” he scratched at the back of his neck. “I reckon I need a haircut. And a shave.”

Her eyes shone, and she laughed a little. “I reckon ye do, at that. Come on, then, let’s go to the bathing room and see if we can make ye look somewhat presentable.”

It probably wasn’t the best haircut, mostly combing out the tangles and clipping the splits all the way up. A good wash, when the soap wasn’t trying to penetrate matted coils, and then brushed until it was satin smooth and shiny, tied at the base of his neck into a queue.

Shaving was harder. Bucky couldn’t help but flinch every time he saw the blade. After the third time Bucky backed away, shivering, they had to call a stop to it. Becca trimmed the beard as close as she could with scissors; no less dangerous, but somehow less viscerally upsetting than a naked razor.

“Must have had too much whiskey,” Tony said, looking in the mirror over Bucky’s shoulder. “You said it would put hair on your chest, but it never did, did it? You look like a highwayman, now. Ready to rob fat coaches for your dinner?”

“I--” He scratched at his chin; his face felt like someone had peeled it raw, really, even without the shave. “Can you-- have Carter set the high table? I’d like to come down to supper.”

And the high table, put sideways across the dining hall, up on the dais, let him look down at his Clan and see them all, safe and sound. And kept the occasion formal; no one would come up and talk to him, save family. And there weren’t hardly any of those in the Castle now, anyway. Ma and the three youngest were in Edinburgh with Ma’s _other_ sister, spouse-hunting.

So it would be Bucky, and Becca, and Rumlow at the high table. Robert Proctor, the pastor, too, if he came in from the village. Seemed a sad number for what had once been a full table.

He took a deep breath. “Have her put a chair up there for the Englishman, s’well.”

Becca stared at him. “You’re sure?”

“He’s a guest,” Bucky said, ignoring Tony’s pout and the feel of Tony’s fingers in his hair. “We should give him every courtesy.”

“He doesn’t need personal attention from _you_ ,” Tony said.

Bucky chewed on his lip and looked at Tony in the mirror. He could see the wall right through him, the terrible tapestry that Bucky’s sisters had made. _I didn’t mean to hurt you, Tony-- but you’re gone, you’re gone and I need to go about my life, if I’m to have one._

Tony faded out, as if he’d never been there at all.

But he’d be back. Bucky knew that well enough.

“See to it, will ye?”

“O’course,” Becca promised. She hesitated, then stretched up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “It’ll be good t’have ye in the hall again.”

“I hope it will be,” Bucky said, fervently. He had been overwhelmed by the Clan when he’d first gotten home, all loud and unruly, and didn’t they know how _dangerous_ that was… People touching him and asking questions and… Bucky’d gone clean off his rocker, yelling to be left alone.

That was the first time he’d found the Tower room, and claimed it as his personal sanctuary.

Until Anthony had come along and invaded it.

“I hope it will be all right.”

“We’ll take care of ye, brother. You’ll see.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

Tony went for a walk in the castle gardens after supper, to give himself a little time alone with his thoughts. God knew, he didn’t want to try to make conversation with Becca Barnes while he was still reeling from seeing the transformation in Bucky.

Tony had always known Bucky was a handsome man. Tall, broad-shouldered and trim-waisted, with well-muscled thighs and exquisitely-turned calves. His eyes flashed from colder than ice to warm as summer rain, and his whole face lit up, it seemed, when he laughed.

But somehow, Tony had grown accustomed to the wild tangle of hair and brushy beard, and when Bucky had made his entrance in the dining hall, Tony was not the only one present who’d utterly frozen in shock at the change. Hair combed and beard trimmed, Bucky had looked every inch the strong leader that the head of the clan should be.

Tony’s throat had gone dry, and he’d spent half the meal eating by habit alone, trying desperately to hold up his end of the conversation with the pastor and trying not to sneak looks down the table, where Bucky was sitting between Becca and Rumlow.

Bucky hadn’t spoken much during the meal, a few words here and there, but he’d seemed calm. Commanding. Certain.

It was the first time Tony had seen Bucky truly acting as the Buchanan since he’d come north, and damned if it didn’t make the man even more attractive. If Tony’d had the smallest hope that Bucky would accept, Tony would have gone straight from the dining hall to the Duke’s Chambers to offer himself up.

But Bucky still thought Tony was dead, a ghost haunting him. So, the gardens it was, until Tony could get his feelings under control and be ready to face the clan with a calm face.

“Stark, where the blue blazes--” Steve wheezed more than grumbled, puffing like he’d been running. Bucky had written that Steve as a boy had breathing problems. Two years as a prisoner of war probably hadn’t done that any good at all.

Tony looked around, and had to stretch up before he spotted Steve’s pale hair on the far side of a hedge. “I’m here,” he called, and lengthened his stride to get to the end of the row. “Here,” he said again, as Steve came into view. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“What did-- what did you say-- to him?” Steve stopped, leaning on his knees and then coughed a few times. Straightened up as much as he could. “Damn weak lungs.”

“I don’t... Nothing, really,” Tony said, bewildered. “I haven’t been pushing him. We agreed that wouldn’t work. What’s happened?”

Steve took the bag off his shoulder and rattled it at Tony. “He came down to the ‘pothacaries, right after supper. Asked… asked me if I had any willow bark tea, an’ maybe some muscle liniment.” There was an expectant look in Steve’s expression.

“I take it that’s... unusual?” Tony guessed, confused. Surely, given Bucky’s injuries and the weight of his false arm, he needed the relief more often than not.

“This is a man who leaned into a cup of molten iron to afix that end cap with naught more’n two sips of whiskey,” Steve said. “He hasn’t come to me for help since we’ve been home. And even in the pit, I think the only reason he ever took aid was because he couldn’t get away from me. He came to me… for something _minor_. It’s a good thing. You must… you must be doin’ _something_ right.”

Steve wiggled the bag again. “Take it to him.”

Tony took it cautiously, opened it to look in. There were several packets of tea and a corked jar. “Why me? Shouldn’t you deliver it?”

“I think we should spread it out, a bit,” Steve said. “He went to his sister, earlier. If… if he gets a little bit of help, from a lot of people, maybe he won’t see himself as… a burden. A few minutes here, a few minutes there. He’s not going to be able to rub this in, not where it needs to go. Not by himself. And…” Steve’s ears turned red. “I’m not sure anyone _else_ ought to be puttin’ their hands on him.”

Tony’s blood seemed to heat across his entire body, and he immediately scolded himself. Despite Steve’s blushing, this was medicinal. Impersonal. Intimate, of necessity, but ultimately passionless.

And yet... his hands itched with wanting to touch Bucky’s skin again. To relieve that pain and perhaps even bring some pleasure.

He swallowed and closed the sack, winding it around his wrist. “Right. I’ll... I’ll bring it to him, then. Thank you.”

Steve nodded. “It’s… I think it just might turn the trick. You’ll see. He’s made… so much progress, just having you here. You’re… like a miracle cure.”

Tony shook his head. “It’s not... I’m not doing anything but putting myself in his line of sight,” he protested. “Talking a little. He’s improving himself.”

“Which he was not doing, before you got here,” Steve said. “Look, I’m an apothecary and a medic. People… need something to live for. I’ve watched it happen before, they just… waste away. And I’ve seen people come back from things that might've killed them. Should have, by all rights. But the right thing-- and they can come back. Don’t tell me you’re not his right thing, because I will call you a liar, and then I will do my best to knock you down.”

Tony grinned; Steve really was every bit as feisty as Bucky had always told him. “If you say so,” he said. “I certainly hope so, anyway.”

Steve pointed toward the keep. “He’s in the Duke’s bedchamber. I trust you know the way.”

“As it happens,” Tony admitted, “I do.” Tony obediently took himself toward the keep. He glanced back once to see Steve watching him, arms akimbo.

The door to the Duke’s bedroom was imposing, thick wood bound by iron. It really wasn’t much different from any of the castle’s doors, honestly. Nearly every room could be used as a holdout, in case of invaders. But somehow the Duke’s door. _Bucky’s_ door.

Seemed more solid.

Formidable.

Of course, most of the other doors in the castle were kept open, at least a little. Airflow spread heat into the corridors, and the doors were heavy to open and close, especially for servants carrying loads.

Bucky’s door was closed.

Keeping the world out, maybe.

He had a legitimate reason to be here, Tony reminded himself. He wasn’t seeking an audience for no reason. He took a calming breath and knocked.

Bucky yanked the door open, still looking very much the Scottish Lord in his finery, only his shirt unlaced at the throat. “Oh. Anthony. Yes?”

Tony held up the bag. “I ran into Steve. He asked me to bring you some things. He said you might need some help with it?”

“Oh,” Bucky said. “Um. Come in, then? I was just--” he gestured at a desk in the room, with a scattering of papers on it, old and yellow. “Looking over some…”

The handwriting was Tony's own, somewhat childish hand. Faded, the corners of the papers foxxed and rumpled from frequent handling.

Bucky went to the fire side and hefted a battered pot. “My mother, when she lived in these rooms… she would take long baths. Long enough the maids left the pot here so she could reheat the water in a hurry.” He laughed, soft. “It's the little things I keep stumbling over. But at least there's hot water for tea.”

He poured out a mug and sat it in the table.

On the floor, in front of the fire, was a bear skin rug, the head of the beast guarding the bed.

Tony stared at it, remembering Bucky’s arms around him, Bucky’s voice shivering warm in his ear. _I’ve got a big old bear fur rug. Lay you down on it, in front of the fire. And everything I’ll ever need, I’ll have right there in my arms._

The fur looked luxurious, thick and soft. It was an act of will to turn away, to open the bag and pull out one of the willowbark packets. “For your tea.”

“Thanks,” Bucky said. “So, Rumlow thinks we ought to plant nothing but potato this year, far as the fields will hold up. Becca thinks wheat and barley in the south fields, and potato only to the west, leave the rest fallow, or to grass for the herds.” He looked at Tony sharply. “What do you think, Englishman? Or will you be staying with us long enough to grow weary of tatties?”

Tony spread his hands. “I’ll stay as long as your grace allows, but I have to admit, I don’t know much about farming. Farming only one crop sounds chancy, though. What if there’s a blight?” He shrugged. “But it’s an uneducated opinion. Now, if you want my thoughts on production and shipping, I can back up my suggestions with solid numbers.”

“Farming’s always risky,” Bucky said. “Dependent on rain and not too much rain. Sun, but not too much. Insects and spiders. Mice and men. Variables. One crop means enough for trade, sell the extra, bring in what we need. Lumbering’s good business. We’ve got wood enough to spare, says I. Enough that with careful husbandry, we could--” He stopped, turned as if he was listening to someone else talk.

Finally he nodded. “Tony’s not wrong,” he said. “Production and shipping, manufacturing. That’s what his family did.” Bucky scrubbed his hand down his face, then threw back his tea in a few gulps. “Ach. That’s vile. And t’ think I’d say it after drinkin’ sour stump water and eatin’ moldy porridge.”

“Likely better for you than either of those, though,” Tony said. He pulled out the liniment. “Would you like me to help you with this?”

Bucky hung the jug off his false hand and prodded at the cork with his thumb, working it out. “Oooh, that’s strong. You sure you want to? Might smell like my uncle for a week after using this.”

“I’ll risk it,” Tony said. “You’ll need _some_ one’s help, I’m sure.” He held out his hand for the little pot. Strong it was, though it didn’t smell bad, just spicy and minty.

Bucky tipped his head, looking over at the desk, listening again to a voice only he could hear. He slowly stripped out of his argyle and tartan, tugging the linen shirt up over his head to show off that chest again, smooth and muscular, skin golden in the firelight, with some scarring around the cap end of his arm. He offered the shirt in the direction of, what Tony assumed was the ghost. “Unless you plan t’ help, I’m gonna take that offer--” He snorted, let the shirt drop on the floor. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

He flipped the desk chair around backward, straddled it, and presented his back to Tony. “If you’d be so kind, then?”

_Impersonal_ , Tony reminded himself. He dipped his fingers into the salve and carefully spread it across the back of Bucky’s shoulder, gently at first, and then more firmly, working the stuff into Bucky’s skin.

Bucky stretched his neck to one side, then the other, a soft sigh sliding between his teeth. He tensed for a moment, each muscle fighting with Tony, trying to knot up even as he pushed and prodded, and then--

“Ohhh,” Bucky groaned, and something crackled in his spine, and he went limp, like putty under Tony’s hands.

The sound was so sensual and suggestive that Tony’s neck and ears flared hot. He bit his lip against the urge to say something outrageous, or to compare it to the noises Bucky had made when they’d kissed. He swallowed those thoughts and tried to keep his tone neutral. Impersonal. “More? Less? Is there a particular spot I should work on?”

Bucky made another noise, grateful and satisfied, pushing back into Tony’s hands. “Harder,” he said, “just on this side of my spine?”

Would Bucky make a sound like that, taking Tony to bed? Tony closed his eyes for a moment, imagining it, _wishing..._ Maybe someday. He scooped out more of the liniment and used his thumbs to work it in, pressing hard against the knotted muscles. The false arm would be heavy, he thought; no wonder Bucky was in pain.

“Ach, that-- oh, you’re a small miracle,” Bucky said. He reached over to the lock-lever. “Do you… mind? If I take it off?”

“Why should I mind? I’m sure it’s a relief to drop all that weight.” Tony smoothed his hands down Bucky’s back and felt the muscle underneath.

Bucky tugged the latch, and the arm twisted off. Bucky inhaled, just a little deeper than he had before. “The whole thing makes people nervous. Some people don’t like it when it’s on, that it’s unnatural. And some don’t like the empty sleeve an’ my scars. My ma used to say that you can’t please everyone, but it’s startin’ to feel like I can’t please _anyone_.”

“Mm, well, I can’t say I enjoy seeing how badly you’ve been hurt,” Tony said, “but it’s a miracle you survived at all, and I can’t help but be grateful for that, even if it changed you.”

“Am I? So different, now.” Bucky folded his arm and let his head droop against the back of the chair. “I still feel like myself, even if everyone else acts like I’m a stranger to them. The parts of me… everything’s a little more fenced in, perhaps. I feel sometimes that the world has turned a stranger to me, but that can’t be, can it? That the whole world would change, while I’m the same. So, it must be me.”

He groaned again as Tony pushed just along the center of his spine. “That’s… that’s very nice.”

It _was_ nice, Tony thought. Being able to touch, to talk a little. The “ghost” seemed to have opted out for the moment. Maybe some of the old Bucky could be recovered. It had only been a few months since his escape, after all. “I’m happy to help,” Tony said softly.

“Yes, we’ve noticed that,” Bucky said, equally softly. Not whispering, but just quiet. Enough that Tony had to lean a little closer to hear, enough that he could feel Bucky’s body heat. Close enough to kiss. “Tony thinks you’re attempting to take his place. I’m… wondering what it is that you want.”

“I could never take Tony’s place,” Tony said, a little sadly. Mostly because he _was_ Tony, but saying so would only agitate Bucky. He wondered what it meant, that the figment of Bucky’s imagination was... jealous? That it felt threatened by Tony in some way. Maybe that meant that Bucky _did_ recognize Tony, a little, and was simply afraid to let go of the delusion that had helped him cling to life for so long.

“I’ve been reading about Buchanan since I was a boy,” he said. Well, that was true. “I’m happy to finally be here, now.”

“It’s little enough, then,” Bucky said. “Come, look. I’ve always thought it was beautiful. The most perfect place in the whole world.” He craned his neck to look around at Tony, eyes wide and dark in the light. “Do you agree?”

_So long as you’re here,_ Tony thought, arrested by Bucky’s luminous beauty. Almost, almost, he lost his grip on his resolve, almost leaned in to kiss those plush lips. He caught himself only at the very last second, blinking and straightening up. “It’s certainly the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,” he said, and if his voice was a little rough, he doubted either of them would mention it.

Bucky rolled his arm around a few times, the rough edge of the cap glinting in the light. “I am… very grateful for your assistance, Anthony.” He pushed out of the chair, and was suddenly much closer than Tony expected him to be, tall and looking down at Tony with a crinkle between his brows. “It-- It’s good of you to have come, to visit, to help. I--” He leaned in, caught apparently in the same web that had nearly ensnared Tony.

The very tip of his tongue darted out, wet his lips. “You-- ah, you should… it’s late.”

Tony licked his own lips. He took a half a step back, wholly unable to stop looking at Bucky. “I... I should go,” he agreed weakly. “I’ll. I hope I’ll see you tomorrow, your grace.”

Bucky nodded, but didn’t look away. Watched as Tony took a step back, and another. “Yes, I-- we’ll see each other again, quite soon, I imagine.”

Tony backed into the door and startled, finally looking away. His heart was racing as he fumbled for the handle. “Yes. Good-- Good night, your grace.”

“Sleep sweet,” Bucky told him. Just as Tony was closing the door, he saw Bucky collapse into the chair like a puppet whose strings had been cut. 


	12. Chapter 12

“You seem pleased with yourself,” Tony said, sarcastic and chilly. He still looked perfect, not a hair out of place. The same suit that he’d worn every day for the last several seasons.

Bucky sighed, ran his hand through his hair. He didn’t want to fight with Tony, he never wanted to do that. He considered and discarded a half dozen responses and then said nothing. Tony-- Tony would either understand or he wouldn’t.

He considered his clothes, and went the simple route, buckling himself into his hunter, pulling a shirt on one handed, leaving it unlaced. It was the smell, he thought. Tony -- _his_ Tony, the one who had comforted him, who’d encouraged him and kept him going -- his Tony didn’t smell, not like sweat or dirt or cologne or anything.

Anthony, on the other hand… smelled like cologne.

And underneath, like grease and metal.

“What if he’s right, love?” Bucky asked. “What--”

“What if I’m not really here, if you’re talking to yourself? What am I then? A dream? The delusion of a madman?”

“Shut up,” Bucky said. He yanked his door open and stalked down the hall, leaving the ghost behind. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about anything. At least in the pit, all his thoughts had been on simply surviving one more day. Out here, without walls, without guards… he didn’t know how to survive anymore.

He just wanted to look out. He wanted to look out and see-- and not have to think.

Toward the tower stairs, and he almost knocked over a maid in his haste. She jumped back, babbling an apology that Bucky couldn’t hear for the pounding of blood in his head. Up the stairs, up, and--

Anthony was in the tower room.

Because of course he was; he’d been there almost every day, bringing some little thing or other, cleaning the room up, making it pretty and comfortable. Today, though, he was sitting on the floor by the fireplace, hunched over something and mumbling quietly to himself.

“Yes, there you go, nice and easy... Oh, look at that, just perfect. I knew you couldn’t be too badly off, not with how simple you are. All right, where’s the cover piece...”

Bucky actually turned to look for Tony, but--

\--he was right there, behind Bucky, shaking his head and looking sad. “It should have been a simple thing, shouldn’t it? I should have been able to--”

“You couldn’t tell me how to fix it,” Bucky said. “Because you never did. Everything else, but-- but not clockworks, those were always yours, just for you.” He closed his eyes.

“You don’t need me,” Tony said, soft, and there was a hint of a push against Bucky’s shoulder. “Not anymore.”

“That’s a lie,” Bucky said. “I will-- always need you.” But he wasn’t talking to the hallucination that was melting away behind him, but the man, the man in front of him.

Anthony -- _Tony_ \-- had looked up at the sound of Bucky’s voice. He was watching Bucky cautiously, calmly, the little bear cradled in one hand, a pair of tweezers in the other. “Your grace?”

“Go on then, wind him up,” Bucky suggested. Strange, really, how hollow he felt. As if in realizing the truth, he’d lost Tony all over again, even though he was right there. He really was; and yet-- not the same. The Tony who’d been with Bucky for every terrible thing in his life… was a compilation of memory and imagination and desperate need.

Tony nodded. “Just let me...” He picked up a tiny screw with the tweezers and carefully, deftly, slipped it into place, twisting it carefully snug. Then he stood up, wound up the mechanism and set the bear on the mantle to wave its paws at Bucky.

“A couple of gears and a spring had fallen out of place,” Tony said softly. “It wasn’t too hard to fix, really.”

“No, I imagine not,” Bucky said. “Not for you. Did… did you ever get the horse mane to work? You went on and on about it, and then--”

“No, I wound up having to take it completely apart and do a different--” Tony broke off, staring at Bucky with wide eyes.

“We talked-- about this, once, remember?” Bucky jerked his chin at his arm. “Not… not this arm, specifically, but there was an accident, at one of your family foundries. There was a drawing, you had this idea. Always full of ideas, aren’t you?”

Tony’s mouth opened, closed, opened again, but nothing came out. Tears filled his eyes. He lifted a hand, trembling, and reached toward Bucky’s face, just barely brushing Bucky’s cheek with his thumb.

“Tony’s right more often than not,” Bucky said. “Your father said that, did you know? Did I ever think to tell you? Everything you ever said to me, every word you ever wrote, and when I couldn’t trust my own mind, I trusted _you_. You’re the only thing that kept me going in that hellhole.”

Tony shook his head. “It was you,” he whispered. “Really. It was you, finding the strength to endure. I didn’t... I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even know, until I came here, what had happened.”

“Maybe,” Bucky said. “Maybe it was me, finding the strength, but-- Tony? You gave me the tools. You didn’t, maybe you didn’t even know what you were doing, but if you hadn’t? Without hope. Without something worth fighting for? I wouldn’t have been able to do any of this, and Tony-- you’ve always been worth it. Worth _everything_. We’re in this together, aren’t we? Don’t… don’t say it’s too late.”

The tears flowed over as Tony stared at him, and then without warning he’d launched himself at Bucky, arms wrapping tightly around Bucky’s waist as Tony tucked his face into Bucky’s neck and sobbed. “Bucky,” he gasped. “Oh, God, you _remember_...”

Bucky stood absolutely still, terrified again of doing something wrong. He… he’d always been rough and tumble with his affections, but he wasn’t used to being touched with kindness anymore. Even Steve, in the prison, hadn’t touched him much. No one did. Where everything else had been taken from them, some measure of dignity had to be preserved.

It took him a long moment to remember how to hold someone, to curl his arm around Tony’s back and cup his head with one hand. To breathe, to just… be.

“I never forgot you, not for one second, not ever,” Bucky promised. “I jus’ got a little confused, that’s all, sweetheart, that’s all.”

Tony hitched a breath. “I didn’t know if you’d ever _see_ me again.” He clutched at Bucky’s shirt with one hand and pulled back, just enough to look at Bucky’s face. His cheeks were streaked with tears, his eyes red, and he’d never been so beautiful, so _real_.

“It’s so strange,” Bucky said, and he couldn’t stop _touching_. Stroking Tony’s hair, patting his shoulder, running a thumb against his lower lip, everything. “The-- the other you… he never cried. He cracked jokes and he chided me and he offered advice. He promised me that I’d be safe, if I just kept looking at him. But he never cried.” He didn’t know why that made Tony seem so much more real, the way his tears shimmered and clumped up his eyelashes, the child-like sniffling sounds he was making, or the way Bucky’s own tears let go, the way they hadn’t--

_It’s all right, my love. You can let me go now. Everything’s fine._ It was a ghost of a whisper, or the last whisper of a ghost, and it didn’t matter, because everything _was_ fine.

Or it would be as soon as they could stop weeping on each other. Bucky laughed, and it turned into another sob, and then the sobs turned back into laughter, until he couldn’t breathe or think or do anything at all. Except hold Tony, and let himself be held.

Eventually, some time later -- he had no idea how long -- most of the hysteria had worked its way out of them both. “Remind me,” Tony said, sounding comically stuffed-up, “that I have some papers in my trunk that I need to throw on the fire.”

“All right, my love,” Bucky told him, urging them both over so that Bucky could sit on the great oak chair and pull Tony into his lap. “Wish I hadn’t thrown all those damn cushions out the window,” he grumbled, but only a little because Tony was here, and he was mostly soft, except in the places where he was bony elbows and too-long legs. Which did more to convince Bucky that this was real and it was happening than anything else.

That his own fit of rage was directly responsible for him being slightly uncomfortable. It was almost funny, if it hadn’t been so ridiculous.

Tony laughed, a little, arranging himself a little more comfortably, so he could rest his head against Bucky’s shoulder. “I’ll bring you some more cushions,” he promised. “Anything you want.”

“What I-- what I want?” That was such an alien thought Bucky didn’t quite know what to do with it. “All I’ve ever wanted… but it’s a little late in the season.” He peeked at Tony cautiously. “Would you object to a late summer wedding? I mean, we could wait until next year, if you had your heart set on May.”

“The whole reason we settled on May,” Tony pointed out, “was so we could marry as quickly as possible. I’d marry you right this minute if I didn’t think Becca would kill us for it.” He laughed, a little, and sniffled again. “She’s going to be so happy.”

“I shouldn’t even doubt it,” Bucky said. He settled back into his chair with his lap full of Tony, looking out the window over Tony’s shoulder, heart full. “She’ll probably march us right down to the pastor herself, to see it done.”

“She’ll likely come looking for me soon,” Tony said. “I generally visit with her in the mornings after I’ve seen you settled here.”

“It’s Scotland, after all,” Bucky said. “No readin’ of the banns. We could be married by sundown.”

“We... could,” Tony said. He pulled back enough to look at Bucky. “We could. Your mother might be upset, but if you’re willing to chance it...”

“I was always going to marry you,” Bucky said. “She’s known that since I was ten years old. I think she’ll be relieved, more than anything. That is… if you’ll still have me.”

“I was always going to marry you,” Tony echoed. “The only way to keep that from happening was for you to break the betrothal.”

“ _Never_.”

***

As predicted, Becca was _ecstatic_ that Bucky had finally accepted Tony was, well, Tony. She did not, however, endorse an immediate wedding.

After some discussion, she agreed to throw together a small, fast celebration to be held at the end of the week.

It hardly mattered to Tony. He could barely comprehend being happier, after three years of uncertainty and fear. A brief delay of their wedding night only gave him time to appreciate each moment they were together -- and now that they had been properly reunited, they could hardly bear to be separated.

He did, at least, burn the papers that Murdock and Nelson had put together for him, dissolving the betrothal. They made a small ritual of it, the two of them. And if they sealed that moment with a long-anticipated kiss, well, no one else needed to know.

Tony added a note to his latest packet of business correspondence awaiting post, warning them to anticipate the wedding and begin drawing up assorted documents and to transfer a sum to Edinburgh, for more convenient access. It took him rather longer to compose the much shorter note to his mother.

There was a bit of a panic, two days before the wedding, when Becca found the handfasting cords and came to the sudden realization that Bucky was missing the necessary hand. Tony’s suggestion that they simply flip and use their right hands instead was greeted with as much shocked horror as if he’d suggested they turn up at the chapel naked. Eventually, it was young Sharon Carter who suggested they bind Tony’s wrist to Bucky’s false arm, and then wind the cord up the arm to his shoulder, ensuring all appropriate symbolism was invoked.

Peggy and Angie sat Tony down in the kitchen the day before the wedding to drill him in his part -- he being an ignorant Englishman who didn’t know how a proper wedding was conducted. He didn’t think it sounded so hard -- there was a purse of pennies that he was to scatter across the chapel threshold as they departed, and a cup of whiskey for he and Bucky to share at the subsequent feast -- but they were determined that he should do both things exactly to some standard that he wasn’t certain he entirely grasped.

The day of the wedding was a bit of a blur, once it arrived. After some discussion, Tony had been permitted to wear his most formal English suit, but a length of Buchanan tartan was draped over his shoulder and pinned at his side as a sort of sash. He was certain he looked ridiculous to both English and Scot eyes, but Bucky couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away, and that was all Tony cared about.

He recited the things Reverend Proctor told him to say, but didn’t pay them much heed; he’d said everything important that needed to be said already, to Bucky. The kiss they shared was rather more enthusiastic than Tony’d ever seen at any English wedding, but he was hardly going to complain when the rowdy clan cheered them on.

The feast was even more of a blur -- perhaps something to do with that cup of whiskey, for all Tony’d only take two sips before passing it on to Bucky’s mother, who’d arrived only just in time to witness.

There was food that he barely touched, and more whiskey, and a great deal of singing and laughing and dancing from the rest of the clan. And through it all, there was Bucky at his side, Bucky’s hand in his own, Bucky’s shining eyes that rarely seemed to look anywhere but at Tony.

“At least it’s a proper wedding,” Bucky said. “Not that I didn’t sometimes think about throwing you over my saddlebow and racing north to Gretna Green, just to get you out of that terrible house in London. As your husband and Laird, I give you permission to burn that place to the basement.”

Tony laughed. “Not that I haven’t considered it, but I was thinking I might turn it into an orphanage or charity house instead.” He smiled, just a bit sly. “A few of my best memories happened there, too, you know.”

“Mine, too,” Bucky said, and a sort of cloud passed over his expression before it cleared again. “Your Ana’s apple cake, for one. And she told you it had to set proper overnight, and we stole down when the clock chimed one, and ate the whole thing? I thought we’d finally offended the only person in the house that was on our side when she came down and found us sleeping in the pantry.”

Tony grinned. “I think she finally forgave me sometime after New Year’s.” He spared a glance at the rest of the dining hall before turning back to Bucky. “When can we sneak away?”

“ _Sneak_?” Bucky snorted. “You don’t _sneak_ out of a Scottish matrimonial. Brace your English sensibilities, my love.” He turned the screw in the elbow of his false arm, to give it a little flexibility, then stood. “It’s been quite lovely, Clan, kin, but if you’ll excuse us, stern duty calls.”

There were an assorted whoops and whistles from the assembled clansmen, and quite a number were staring _with intent_ at Tony, which was more than a little unnerving. Bucky looped him around the waist with his good arm, kissed him thoroughly, and then-- “Don’t squirm, I don’t want to drop you.” --actually picked him up like a sack of grain, as if they were children again. With, apparently, the intent of carrying him bodily out of the reception hall.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Tony groaned. The Scots only got _louder_ as Bucky strode from the room. Tony was pretty certain his face was going to spontaneously combust before they made it to Bucky’s room. “Was that _entirely_ necessary?”

“Perhaps not,” Bucky said, putting Tony on his feet just inside the door. “But wasn’t it fun?”

“You have an odd idea of _fun_ , husband.” Tony brushed down his clothes like a mortally offended cat, if only to cover the fact that he wasn’t... entirely certain what to do next, for all his dreaming and wishing. The bearskin rug was leering at him, and he turned away from it. Which was no good, because now he was staring at the bed.

“Ach, t’was just a bit of harmless fun. And, you understand, I-- needed to know that… that I can still be man enough for you,” Bucky said, face flushing.

Tony would have scoffed, but the expression on Bucky’s face was too sincere, too earnest, to mock. Tony threaded fingers into Bucky’s hair, teasing it loose from its careful tie, and tugged him down for a kiss. “I hope that’s well proven now, then.”

“Not yet,” Bucky said, nuzzling soft at Tony’s mouth. “But I hope it shall be by morning.”

Tony shivered and clung tighter for a moment, then let go and stepped back. He unpinned the tartan sash and draped it carefully over the back of the desk chair. He could practically feel Bucky’s eyes on him as he shed his jacket, his cravat, his waistcoat, his breath coming harder with each item he removed, his heart pounding loud enough that Bucky could surely hear it.

“You-- you don’t have to be scared, Tony,” Bucky said, moving closer, as if drawn by a magnet. “I won’t… I won’t hurt you.” He tipped his head and lined them up, kissing Tony with increasing urgency, licking his way into Tony’s mouth.

Tony melted into it. “I know,” he murmured, and reached for Bucky again.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter picks up _right_ where the previous chapter left off, so smut-averse readers, you'll want to just come back next chapter.

_It shouldn’t have been different_ , Bucky thought wildly. Tony had seen his scars and his monstrous stump with its seared-on cap, and the carved arm, he’d seen all that.

More than once, even.

If it hadn’t frightened Tony off already, when Tony could have easily backed out of the whole deal-- (Bucky still shivered, thinking about those annulment papers that he and Tony had burned in the fireplace until they were ash, and then later, when Tony couldn’t see, Bucky had come back to dig out the fireplace and throw the ashes in the midden. As if they could be reconstructed somehow.) If it hadn't bothered him then, it wouldn’t frighten him now.

Right?

But the arm was-- it wasn’t built for tenderness and lovemaking in mind.

It was heavy and awkward and full of metal.

He had one piece, just a cover, really, for the screw, that he wore at night, so as not to tear up the sheets, or smack himself in the face with the artificial arm (both of which he’d done before he hit on that solution).

It made him look lopsided, but--

He’d rather risk looking foolish than scraping Tony’s skin with old iron, or bruising him just by rolling over.

The thoughts must have gone on longer than he thought, because he was suddenly aware that Tony had pulled back and was looking at him.

He didn’t look nearly so pale now, though, and that was a blessing. God knew, the last thing Bucky wanted was for Tony to be afraid. Tony’s hand brushed Bucky’s cheek gently, thumb stroking down the grain of Bucky’s beard. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, and his voice broke. He tipped his chin and kissed Tony’s wrist. “Yeah, everythin’ is just different. Gotta plan, more’n I used to.” He took a deep breath. He could ask Tony for help, right? Tony was his helpmate, his husband; they’d sworn oaths to that effect, and Bucky was pretty sure Tony’d meant every word of it.

He kissed Tony’s forehead. “Hold fast a wee minute,” he said. Fetching the cap end from his bedside drawer was the work of a moment. He tossed it on the bed, a simple polished wood cap that fit over the entire metal assembly, making a mostly smooth line over the device. He knelt near the bed, laying his false arm on it -- he’d chipped or dented them more than once taking it off -- and worked the catch, pulling back and leaving the arm on the bed, the sleeve empty and dangling.

Tony came closer, leaning against the end of the bed and looking curiously at the catches on the false arm. “Clever,” he said, admiringly. “Surely I didn’t tell you how to do that?”

Bucky looked at the catches that locked and pulled the screw into place. “Uh, no, this is-- adapted from a brewer’s bottle. Put the cork in, and pull this lever into place, like so-- Took us a while to work that out, though. Th’ damn thing kept fallin’ off.”

Tony grinned. “Clever,” he repeated, and then he was looking at the wooden cap, curious as he’d always been.

“This one just screws into place,” Bucky said, pulling his shirt off over his head, careful not to catch the end on the fine linen fabric. “Covers up all the metal bits and keeps it from gettin’ dirt in it. Or gettin’ grease on everything else.”

And then he was standing there, in his kilt, chest and scars and metal on full display for anyone to just gawk at. Bucky swallowed and then lifted his chin. Tony was his husband, he was going to see Bucky naked, or mostly so, every day for their rest of their lives. Bucky needed to get used to the look on Tony’s face at some point, right?

Tony glanced at Bucky’s face, then stepped closer, trailing his fingers lightly over Bucky’s skin, tracing the line of his neck and shoulder. Tony’s expression was hard to decipher. Perhaps he was telling himself that he’d have to get used to this, as well. He hesitated as he reached the thickest of the scarring. “Does it hurt?”

He almost lied. _Almost._

“Not so much as it did,” Bucky said. “From here--” He jabbed a finger at his upper arm “--and down, don’t feel anything, almost. Sometimes pressure. Used to be damn bad, but Steve thinks I killed off that part, when I put this on. Gotta check it though, all the time. Because I can’t feel it. Still bleeds an’ all. Could get infected again, and then I’d be sore out of luck.”

Tony nodded solemnly, and continued his light exploration, tracing the scars and the rim of the cap where it was seared against Bucky’s skin. “I... have some ideas,” he said, like a confession. “Ways to make the attachments lighter, so they won’t pull as much. There’s a--” He cut himself off with a rueful twist of his mouth. “Later.” His eyes flicked up to Bucky’s and he flushed. “More important things to be doing now.”

Bucky found himself startled into a laugh. Trust Tony to be looking at things more as a problem to be solved than anything else. “Never could quite get my head around how smart you are,” he said. “An’ I listened, got a good memory. I can do jus’ about anything if you show me how, but-- thinking it up? That’s all you.”

Tony flushed darker and smiled bashfully at the praise. He shook his head, but reached up, drawing Bucky down for a kiss that left them both breathless.

There were a lot of buckles on Bucky’s clothes: the two that held his kilt on, the one for his sporran, flashes that kept his hose up, and the laces on his ghillies. Even on his best day, it took him a good while to get dressed and undressed, doing it one-handed. He propped his foot up on the bench that he’d dragged over to the side of the bed just for that purpose. Left side first, that was always the hardest to get the knots, so he did those when he was fresh, rather than frustrated.

“Anyone ever tell you the difference between a lad, a laird and a liar?”

“No?” Tony cocked his head, looking between Bucky’s face and where he was fussing with his laces. “Should I... help with those?”

Bucky ignored the offer of assistance; he’d need help more in the morning to dress again. “So, the kilt, you know, covers our modesty. There’s a sayin’ that the length of a man’s kilt will tell ye a handswidth from tip to hem.” He kicked off his one shoe, peeled down his hose. “So, ye see, here, where the hem hangs, t’ here is where the manhood begins. So, ye can always tell; a lad’s kilt is here--” he gestured just below his thigh. “A laird’s… well, ye can see. And a _liar_?” He pointed well below his knee.

Tony burst out laughing. “Oh, you shouldn’t have told me that,” he scolded. “Now I’ll be watching for the length of all the kilts and wondering.”

“It’s why we all have such bonnie knees,” Bucky said, twitching the front apron of his kilt, “since that’s what we show off.”

He tucked his flashers and sock ribbons away neatly on the table, unknotted his ghillies and rolled down the hose. Standing there, barefoot and shirtless in front of his husband, with only his kilt on felt… strangely intimate, even more so than if he was altogether.

Bucky took a step closer, the smooth floor cool against his feet. “Go on then--” he told Tony, and as Tony unbound that stupid neckerchief thing he wore, and started unbuttoning his shirt, Bucky traced his finger down every inch of exposed skin. Buttons that small, he couldn’t work yet, but he’d learn. Someday, he’d just have Tony stand there, as Bucky undressed him proper.

Tony stripped out of his shirt and let it fall to the floor, and stepped out of his shoes. He watched Bucky for a moment, skin shivering and shuddering under the touch. “Do you remember the last time you came to London?”

“I do,” Bucky said. He swallowed again; his mouth kept feeling too full of spit, and his throat ached. “I was a wee bit rough with ye.” Too rough, too much. Tony had been too young, and Bucky much too drunk. But Tony had put a stop to it and Bucky had listened to what he wanted. It wasn’t-- he shook it away. He hadn’t hurt Tony, just a little slap-an’-tickle, over soon enough.

“Was that rough?” Tony wondered. “I liked it. I liked feeling you so close, I wanted... I didn’t want it to stop, even though I knew we should.” His hands went to work on the buttons of his trousers, long-fingered and nimble. “I thought about it a lot.”

“Did you?” Bucky asked. “And what did you think about? Me layin’ on you with your thighs spread open for me, or did you think about me touchin’ ye?” He wanted, and he wondered, so he reached out, ran a very light hand down Tony’s chest, over his belly, and across that open vee in his trousers, skin barely covered by those thin linen drawers, so pale and tempting under the dark pants.

Tony’s breath stuttered out of his lungs and he swayed into the touch. “All of it,” he said. “Everything. Every little moment. I played it over and over in my head, when I was alone and no one could see me.” He caught his lip in his teeth, worrying it red.

“Do you-- would you rather I put out th’ lamps? I can move the screen in front of th’ fire, if you want me not to look,” Bucky said, and quailed a bit, inwardly. He didn’t _know_ if he wanted Tony looking at him, but he also had no idea what he was doing, and being able to see… might help. Or not. In the darkness, Bucky might be able to pretend he was still whole.

_A Buchanan’s twice a man as any other, so even an arm down, you’re still one up,_ Steve whispered, a remembered conversation.

“You’re so beautiful,” Bucky told him. “Even if I have to see you with my fingertips, and my mouth, instead of my eyes. I know how beautiful you are.”

Tony’s hand pressed against Bucky’s chest, slid downward, exploring, tracing the edge of skin just over Bucky’s kilt. “You’re beautiful, too. I’ve always thought so, even when I was just a child. Leave the lamps; I want to see your eyes and your smile.”

Bucky nodded, worked the buckle on the side of his kilt loose, dropped it. The front apron slid open, and then, one more buckle on the inside. He took a breath, tugged it and flicked the tong open with one finger. He captured Tony’s mouth, not quite ready, and more ready than he’d ever been in his life. Kissed him, and kissed him again, and then let the buckle go.

The kilt crumpled to the floor, leaving him bare. Without opening his eyes, he tugged at Tony’s trousers, pushing the fabric down around the man’s thighs. He touched that skin, right there, where no one but Tony would ever have touched, felt the edges of his drawers. English and their modesty. The leg hole was wide enough to accommodate Tony’s thigh and a few inches of Bucky’s fingers, so he reached up, teasing at the tender skin. “Did you think if I’d touch you here?”

“I dreamed it,” Tony said in a breathless gasp. “When I... touched myself. Imagined it was you.” He was blushing harder now, until Bucky could practically feel the heat coming off his skin. He tucked his head, hiding his face against Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky tugged at the drawers, but they didn’t budge. “Buttons, or-- tapes? You English, always so straight-laced.” He laughed, then pulled at the bow there, right under Tony’s navel. It gave way easily enough, and then the only thing between them was air.

Tony was hard and gorgeous and quivering like a newborn colt. Bucky wanted to look his fill, he wanted to be able to paint, or sculpt, or carve. Compose poetry. Something, _something_ to give praise to the man he saw before him. He nearly forgot about his own state of undress in admiring Tony. A long, slow touch, as if measuring the man from bollocks to crown with one exploratory finger.

When Tony shivered, Bucky moved closer, to embrace him, keep him warm, and he found himself pressed close, his own cock warm and snug against Tony’s belly. He gasped at the sensation, someone else’s skin against his own, velvet soft and warm and-- his hips pushed against that heat. “Tony--”

Tony looked up at him, and those whiskey eyes were dark and wide as his arms came around Bucky to feel the planes of his back. “You promised me a bed, for our first time,” he said, mouth curving in a teasing smile.

“T’is right behind you, my bonnie,” Bucky told him. “Turned down and all.” Tony took a step back and another and another until his legs hit the mattress and he tumbled onto it, laying on his back and looking up. “Look, you still have your stockin’s on.” Bucky bent and captured Tony’s toes, tugged the sock off. “Give us your other leg, there.” Bucky patted his thigh.

Tony lifted his leg and propped it on Bucky’s thigh. He pushed up onto his elbows, watching Bucky with those night-dark eyes and parted lips. “Come on, then, husband. Stern duty awaits.”

“Perhaps not so stern,” Bucky admitted, and he peeled the other sock down, looking at Tony’s foot, trim ankle, well-muscled calf. Tony’s skin was several shades paler, having rarely known the sun’s touch. A dusting of dark curls started around his ankle. He kept his grip on Tony’s foot, looking down at the man, sprawled and naked and vulnerable. Beautiful. He bent and planted a kiss on the side of Tony’s calf, feeling the tickle of hair against his face. Tony sucked in a startled breath that ended with a soft moan, so Bucky did it again, a little higher. His tongue darted out to sample the skin there, to see what Tony tasted like.

Tony stared at him. “That’s... not something I ever imagined,” he said shakily. “I don’t-- What should I do?”

Bucky floundered a bit; he was as new to this as Tony, only doing what seemed interesting, and that Tony might like. “What-- whatever suits you to do,” Bucky said. He found the back of Tony’s knee to be fascinating, the skin soft as kidglove, and stroking it with his fingers made Tony squirm deliciously. “Tell me, if you don’t like what I do. Tell me… what you wish that I would do. You’re th’ only man I ever touched, and, s’far as I can tell--” He pushed Tony’s legs even wider, making a show of inspecting those firm thighs. “-- ye dinnae come with instructions tattooed on.”

“You’ve never--” Tony’s eyes couldn’t get rounder, but he sat up and curled his hands around Bucky’s neck, kissing him hot and hungry. “Mine,” he said fiercely. “All of you.”

And then Bucky couldn’t resist any longer, practically falling on his husband and diving deep into that kiss, rubbing them together. There was heat and friction, a little too much, and then it was perfect as he found a good angle to rut against Tony’s thigh. They squirmed together, trying to figure it out, more and better, and--

“‘Course I ne’er,” Bucky gasped against Tony’s throat, licking at the skin there, and again along Tony’s chin until he found the man’s lips. “What could another man do for me that I can’t find with my own hand? All I ever wanted was you.” He didn’t bother to mention he hadn’t found much joy in his own hand, either, recently. No privacy, deprivation, hadn’t exactly led Bucky to feeling randy. And coming home had been so strange, it hadn’t even occurred to him to seek comfort of that sort.

Tony laughed a little, though it ended as a gasp as their bodies rocked together. “You seemed to know what you were about, the last time,” he said. “I always thought you’d be the one to teach me to please you.” His hands were wandering, bolder now, testing the curve of Bucky’s hips, the tender skin at the base of Bucky’s spine.

“I was a soldier, even then.” Bucky said. “An’ men talk. Got myself a bit of instruction, an’ taken out to the pastures once to watch the horses in their heat. You’re not much like a horse, but I think I can puzzle out how it’s supposed to go. We’ll figure it out. We’re in this together, yeah?” He remembered how flushed and squirmy he’d felt watching the horses, and then the men, who’d made crude gestures with fingers and tongues and jokes about oil and knotholes in trees. He’d had to stagger away from one of those camp-talks to find solace in his own grip.

“Together,” Tony agreed. His hips rolled like the sea, and he panted out each breath. “I... I’ve wanted, all week, I’ve wanted you, so much, I... don’t know if I’ll last.” He tipped his head back, stropping himself against Bucky’s skin urgently.

“We can always try it again, if we get it wrong,” Bucky said. Tony was squirming so deliciously that Bucky wasn’t quite sure he’d be able to not spill himself too soon, as well. He’d heard people talk, of tavern girls and boys, who’d taken a man’s spill on their thigh, and that image of his own-- across Tony’s skin. “Sweet _Christ_ , you wrigglin’ like that, I don’t ken I’ll last any longer.”

“Should I stop?” And now Tony was definitely teasing, with a laugh that turned into a groan. “I like the sound of _again_ ,” he admitted. “We’ve a lifetime to get it right.”

“We do,” Bucky said. He knew what he was _supposed_ to do, to make Tony ready to take him, but he didn’t think he had the patience for it. He’d been waiting to claim Tony for too long, and just rubbing against him felt so, so good. He flushed, hot and eager, and-- “Oh, I have myself an idea. Tell me, tell me if you don’t like--”

He’d gotten an offer once, and had been stunned enough by it to let the man fumble around under Bucky’s kilt before he realized exactly what was going on and slapped him away, but-- Tony might like it. He’d not confess it before anyone, but after, he’d entertained the daydream of Tony on his knees, Tony with his head under Bucky’s kilt, and that sweet mouth. “Spread.” And Bucky pushed himself down Tony’s body, dropping a kiss on his chest, his ribs, licked at the groove over his hip, and then…

The scent of Tony’s skin was intoxicating, heavy and a little musky, and his manhood was up and quivering like a dowsing rod, seeking heat and wet and friction. Tentatively, Bucky licked at the side of it, along the length, all the way up like a candy stick from the mercantile shop.

“Oh, sweet _God_ ,” Tony moaned. “ _Bucky_ , oh-- oh, how... how can you-- _Oh!_ ” His hand came down on Bucky’s head, fingers curling into Bucky’s hair restlessly, as if he couldn’t decide whether to pull Bucky closer or push him away.

Well, that was fun, listening to Tony’s voice spiral up. A spurt of bitterness on his tongue, and Bucky leaned on Tony’s legs, bracing himself with the stump, keeping him pinned and wriggling around. “Do you-- like it?” Bucky wondered, and then nuzzled at Tony again, kissing and licking, and then, he shifted a little, trying to see how much of it he could fit into his mouth.

Tony whined again, trying to squirm under Bucky’s weight and not having much success. “It’s so good,” he panted. “So, so-- Oh, oh, oh! Bucky!”

That sounded promising, and Bucky continued his endeavors along that route, gagging and spluttering a few times as he tried to breathe, and keep from biting down somewhere tender, and--

_Oh_!

Tony’s cock practically jumped in his mouth, shaking and Tony’s cries grew wilder, heedless, and then Bucky’s mouth was flooded. He startled backward, taking most of it across his tongue, and down his chin, watching, amazed. Tony’s cock throbbed and shot out more of the whitish fluid. Sharp-tasting, and a little salty. Bitter, like the headache powder that he sometimes drank mixed with water.

Tony collapsed flat onto the bed, panting for breath. “Definitely... definitely never imagined anything like that,” he said, hoarse. He pushed up onto one elbow to look at Bucky.

Bucky used the edge of the sheet to wipe his chin clean, blushing. “No? Pity that,” Bucky said. “Used t’ think about it, some. Set you right down between my knees and tent my kilt out over your head.” Other things, he’d wanted to do; set Tony on his lap, in a kilt of his own and play under that covering. For now, however-- “Why don’t you roll up on your side here?” He almost lost his thought there, looking at Tony’s ass, bare and proud and round. “I won’t try an’ make you take it, not now, but your thighs are slick an’ just let me rub on you a minute, won’t take but two shakes, I reckon.”

Tony was blushing again (or still?) but he rolled over, let Bucky arrange him a little. He let out a startled little “Oh!” as Bucky slipped between his thighs, and then he was pushing that sweet ass back toward Bucky, encouraging, urging him on.

Those frantic little sounds, the way he was moving, Bucky couldn’t help but thrust in, hitting that hollow between Tony’s legs. He grunted, pulling himself tight against Tony’s back, arm going under him to hold him close, closer, the stump resting on Tony’s side, not hurting at all, perfectly aligned. Bucky tucked his nose into the crook between Tony’s neck and shoulder, rutting, feeling the quiver of Tony’s muscles under that satiny skin.

“Tell me,” Bucky demanded, needing to hear it. Needing to _believe_ it. “Tell me you love me.”

“Love you,” Tony said, reaching up to push his fingers into Bucky’s hair again. “So much, my love, I love you so much. Never doubt it. I’m yours, body and heart and soul.”

It was too much, the slippery feel of Tony’s skin around him, the heat, the closeness. The way Tony’s voice was in his ears and wrapped around his heart.

Bucky pushed himself into that heat again, and again, until he was spilling, until everything inside him was white and hot and clean, and… he might have bitten Tony in his enthusiasm. He found himself, sweaty and shaking, against Tony’s back, all but sobbing with pleasure. “Tony, Tony, _Tony_ ,” he cried.

Tony wriggled around more, until he was facing Bucky, pulling them closer together, tucking his head up under Bucky’s chin and stroking those long, graceful fingers over Bucky’s back. “I’m here, love,” he said softly. “I’m here.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. “You are.” He let himself relax; he hadn’t slept in a bed since he’d come home, too soft and too strange, but he thought maybe he could rest here, with Tony against his chest. The smell of Tony’s skin around them. The mix of their spill and sweat. “Get-- pull the blanket over us, bonnie, and we’ll sleep a little.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [These latches](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flip-top) were actually invented a bit later than our story takes place (ish) but you know. (Invented 1857-ish, invented, our story’s probably more like 1830s. Ish. Everything is ish.)


	14. Chapter 14

Enthusiastic as they’d been about the wedding, not all the Clan was entirely enthusiastic about Tony’s elevation to Bucky’s consort. Grateful as they were that he’d helped Bucky recover from madness, Tony was still an Englishman, who obviously knew little if anything about how things should be done. Rumlow and his cronies, in particular, seemed to be muttering, whenever Tony and Bucky were out of earshot, that Tony should stick to his assigned role as Bucky’s bankroll and bedwarmer, and keep his hands out of the actual management of the keep and clan.

Tony had no intention of giving in to the grumbling. “Two steps forward, one step back,” he told Becca, “is still one step forward. I’m sure I’ll always be That Damned Englishman to some of them, but it won’t be because I’ve given up or given in.”

Hydra raids from the north were growing more and more frequent and determined. With that in mind, Tony took it upon himself to interview the masons and the smiths, drawing up plans for shoring up the castle’s walls and other defenses. Not all of his ideas were workable -- materials were not always as abundant as he’d expected, or the existing construction wouldn’t support the modifications as he’d hoped. Still, he thought he’d won over some of the skilled workmen and, even better, gotten them considering their own ideas for improvements to be made.

Bucky imposed on him several times for letter writing, as Bucky’s penmanship suffered from use of his right hand. “Devil’s own, my tutor once called me,” Bucky said, pushing the papers over the desk at Tony. “But never could hold the quill steady in my right. Not so many here what can write fine and spell well enough to get me through a business contract.”

“I’m glad all those years of doing lines when I was caught doodling in my books rather than paying attention are paying off,” Tony said, amused. “Speaking of business contracts, I’ll need to schedule a tour of the Stark holdings next year. You’ll come with me, won’t you?”

“So long as the raidin’ don’t get much worse,” Bucky said, glumly handing over another report. “They’ve fared well enough without my direction, but the men need the morale, seein’ their Clan head lead, rather than generalize from the rear. Begging your pardon, of course.”

Tony shivered a little; he didn’t like the idea of Bucky having to face down Hydra raids _again_. But he couldn’t very well tell Bucky not to fight, either. “I’d feel better about that if you had someone trustworthy at your back,” he grumbled, pulling out a fresh sheet.

“They’re Clan,” Bucky said, gently. “They fight for their homes and family, much as any-- as much as any one of us can do.”

Tony grunted. “Rumlow fights because he likes fighting.”

“It’s a useful enough outlet for his energy,” Bucky said. “And he’s served the Clan well, these last years. It’s too bad, really, that Becca doesn’t care much for him. He could use a steady hand.”   

Tony didn’t say aloud what he thought Rumlow could use. “Becca deserves a spouse she doesn’t have to manage,” he said instead, because that was equally true and less likely to end with an argument. “I’ll just have to make sure Hydra aren’t a threat before next spring.”

“That’s quite ambitious,” Bucky teased. “We’ve been at a draw with them for years now. Used to be a time when a family with children could go north without a guard. It’s a sad state of affairs is what it is. If this keeps up, we might offer contracts. I hate the idea of mercenaries, but we can only breed but so quick. Hydra’s like a hutch o’ bunnies. Can’t hardly kill ‘em off.”

Tony finished off the report with a flourish, then leaned in to claim a kiss in payment. “Buchanan spirit and Stark ingenuity,” he countered. “We’ll flush them all out in no time.”

“If you do that, I expect we can add a new wing on the keep,” Bucky said. “Build you your own smithy, to your exacting demands. Used to promise to keep you in clockworks as much as you wanted.”

“I still plan to hold you to that,” Tony said, smiling. “But I want you safe, first. I’ll be a bit late to bed tonight,” he added. “I’m going to walk the walls and see what they say to me.” Foundations and fortifications looked different under starlight than they did in the daytime; sometimes Tony saw shadows and cracks that sparked ideas.

“Ma always says the walls had ears,” Bucky told him. “Didn’t know they had tongues to wag, as well. Let me know if they repeat any gossip that might be too much for you.”

Tony chuckled. “Right now, all the gossip is about your busybody Englishman.”

“They’ll get used to ye, quick enough. Now that there’s ready money again, a few extra guineas to jingle, they’ll be more forgiving of any missteps on your part. Not… not to say you’ve _misstepped_ , because of course you haven’t,” Bucky added hastily.

“I’m sure it’s only a matter of time,” Tony said, patting Bucky’s shoulder. “You Scots are strangely easygoing in some ways, and terribly prickly about others.”

“Says a man who comes from a city where forgettin’ to put your gloves in your hat is the subject of a week’s worth of gossip.”

“And that makes perfect sense,” Tony said, sticking his nose in the air. “Honestly, who _does_ that?”

“I put my glove in my sporran,” Bucky confided. “Like any sane creature ought.”

Tony sighed. “I’ve married a barbarian.”

“Aye, that you have, bonnie,” Bucky said, pushing away from his desk and patting one ample thigh. “Come give us a kiss and I’ll see that you’re well compensated for having to put up with our uncivilized ways.”

“Oh you will, will you?” Tony set aside his pen and wound his arms around Bucky’s neck. “And what sort of payment are you offering?”

“The very best kind,” Bucky teased, drawing Tony over to sit in his lap. “Get you all het up and satisfied, so you don’t miss me while you’re walkin’ the walls.”

“I always miss you when we’re apart,” Tony said. “But I encourage the attempt.”

Some hours later, he wasn’t so sure he should have encouraged the attempt; maybe saving it for later would have given him a little more incentive to come up with some decent ideas so he could get back to bed.

The walls were heavy stone held together with their own weight, with only patches of mortar to shore up crumbling rocks. And if he hadn’t been considering the cracks in the wall so very closely, trying to divine a way to use them to their advantage, then he would never have noticed the seam that moved straight down one segment of the wall.

Which was odd, because the stones needed to be staggered to support their weight without falling. Carefully, Tony put a hand on the wall, tracing the crack with his fingertips. And now that he was looking, there was another seam, an arm’s width away. Almost like... a door.

Tony pushed, gently. And then a little harder. And harder yet-- The wall moved, swinging silently away from him.

“What the hell,” Tony whispered. Did Bucky know about this? He’d never mentioned it, even though he’d known Tony was studying the walls. Nor had the stone masons, or the guards. Did that mean they were just humoring the daft Englishman, or were they genuinely unaware?

He considered the stones that made up the door. They were well-weathered and old; it had been in place for some time. He couldn’t help but admire the engineering that had gone into it, though, perfectly counterbalanced and blending so seamlessly with the walls. It led into a tunnel that seemed to go through the base of one of the watchtowers. He crouched and ran his fingers along the floor. It was rough and gritty, but not especially dusty.

The passage was in use, then. Tony wondered: by whom? And for what purpose?

Probably, he reasoned, it was just a convenient way for soldiers to sneak out of the city and surround a force at the gates. Right?

He would ask Bucky about it when he got back to bed. Bucky would probably know.

Certainly creeping around in old tunnels, at night, wasn’t a smart plan. Tony had a lantern, but it cast light in a wide circle and would tell anyone who saw it that he was nearby. Might as well paint a bullseye on his head, and why was he thinking about possible hostiles, when it was a tunnel inside their own walls? It couldn’t have been placed there by an enemy, not without someone noticing.

He found himself several steps inside the tunnel. It was narrow. If he met another person, coming the other way, they’d practically have to rub on each other to pass. Maybe a messenger’s route, to call for help if the castle was besieged.

Tony was going to turn around any second now--

There was a splash of dried wax on the floor, like someone had tipped a candle.

_Red_ wax.

The chandler had been making candles not all that long ago. Red ones, which were Stark Industry colors, to celebrate the wedding. Before that, the candles had been simple beeswax yellow, or undyed. Making fancy tapers was an English habit. The Scots were generally more practical.

Which meant someone had been through here very recently indeed. Since the wedding.

Bucky probably knew about it. Tony was worrying for no reason. There was a perfectly reasonable explanation, and when Tony asked, Bucky would tell him, and they would laugh together about Tony’s runaway imagination. Too much time spent thinking about bandits and defenses.

Yes. He edged out of the tunnel and looked around. There was no one immediately visible. He pushed the heavy door closed. Marked his position, so he could remember where it was.

Were there any _other_ hidden doors in the castle walls?

Right. Enough ridiculous speculation, and more than enough wandering the walls. Tony was going to go back to the keep and his husband. He strode purposefully across the yard, his lantern swaying on its hook. At the door that led into the keep, he glanced back. Just to make sure he remembered which tower the door had been under.

And saw the door open, a dark figure squeezing through the narrow gap.

Bloody hell. There was no time to ask Bucky what was going on. No time to summon a guard. Tony set his lantern down just inside the keep door and ran back across the yard, as quietly as he knew how, stealth honed from years of sneaking to or from the little smithy at the London house.

Whoever it was had left the door cracked, and stopped inside the tunnel to light their candle. When Tony reached the door, he caught a glimpse of the candle’s light and darted back, lest he be seen.

The man moved quickly, obviously familiar with the twists and turns of the path. Broad shouldered. Only bits of the light from his candle spilled backward. He didn’t seem concerned that he was being followed, either.

For a long while, there were no doors or stairs or anything, just a steady decline. It grew colder as the tunnel was deeper underground, no longer bricked walls, but carved stone held up by the occasional ancient wooden arches.

Deep underground there were doors, old, rotten, broken. Holding rooms, maybe. Enough so that at least two squads of men could be hidden inside. Waiting.

What was this? An escape route, perhaps.

Finally there were stairs, and the stranger climbed up them, carved rock with moss growing on it. Slippery. The man stumbled once, near the top, and swore viciously. Tony got a good look at his face.

_Brock Rumlow._

Part of Tony wanted to rush back, run as fast as he could to fetch Bucky -- but for all he knew, this was some legitimate business. It didn’t seem like it, but... Tony swallowed and crept up after him, watchful, careful.

Brock pushed up a door that opened upward and climbed the rest of the way out. The door clattered against the ground and Brock froze in place, waiting.

A dog howled from somewhere, barked a few times. Was picked up by another dog.

A door banged open, and there was some squawking before the dog yipped sharply and then stopped barking.

Brock crept out and left the door open, probably rather than risk banging it again.

Tony pushed closer to the stairway, heart thumping in his chest. He could hear Brock’s footsteps moving away, so he climbed the steps, just enough to peek out and see... a cemetary. Headstones in neat rows, a few mausoleums. Where the hell was this? Tony looked around for Brock and found him, sitting on one of the old headstones.

“You’re late an’ I’m bored,” another man said. “Sitting around here with the dead for company. You know how many Mac-so and sos there are in a damn Scottish boneyard?”

“Jack,” Brock said. He didn’t offer the man a hand, and he didn’t get up.

The man -- Jack, apparently -- thumped his chest twice, then held his fist out. “Hail Hydra.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Brock said, mimicking the gesture without much enthusiasm. “Do we have a deal or not?”

_Hydra?_ Brock Rumlow was making deals with _Hydra?_ Tony climbed up one more stair, trying to listen more closely.

“Schmidt’s considering it,” Jack said. “We want Stark, alive.”

“Easy enough, he’s no fighter,” Brock said. “Gonna ransom him back? To who? Without his signature, the Buchanan can’t pay it.”

“You lack imagination, Mr. Rumlow,” Jack said. “Ransom? No money’s worth what that mind can produce. If he’s properly motivated.”

“He and the Buchanan are are bum over teakettles for each other. It’s nauseating.”

“Well, then, I’m authorized to say we have ourselves a deal. Two men, that’s all you have to do, and Hydra will avoid your territory. There’s other raids north, and south. Fair profit to you. And the Buchanan’s sister’s a fine lass, I hear.”

“Leave her out of it,” Brock growled.

“You’re soft on her, that’s a weakness.” Jack backed off, holding his hands spread. “But not my concern.”

“I’ll bring ‘em to you,” Brock promised.

Tony had heard enough, and he definitely did not want to be caught out here. God only knew what Brock would do if he spotted Tony and guessed that Tony had overheard the conversation. He scuttled back down the stairs, careful of the slippery moss, and headed back along the tunnel corridor, keeping one hand on the wall and moving as quickly as he dared in the pitch darkness.

The trapdoor banging shut behind him meant Brock was on his way. Hell and damnation; Tony wasn’t even halfway back along the tunnel, and Rumlow could move much faster, since he had light.

The side rooms, he thought. If he could just get to one of them, he’d be able to get behind Brock again, stay out of sight. He sped up as much as he dared, until his hand encountered the nothing of the doorway. He groped his way into the room, stepping carefully -- all he needed was to trip over some leftover bit of trash and give himself away -- and around the edge of the wall, so Brock wouldn’t see him. He listened for Brock’s footsteps, holding his breath and breathing as shallowly as he could.

The light flared as Brock got closer, showing off ancient chairs, a few bunk beds with mildewy, rotting pallets. A safe place, maybe. There was an ancient torch in the torch ring. The place was so old and so abandoned there weren’t even cobwebs. Or rats. Which Tony supposed he should be grateful for.

A long moment, while Brock was walking by the door, and then past, and even further, until the light was as dim as a memory, a spark fading into the distance.

Tony made his way back out into the tunnel passageway and followed that hint of light, still keeping a hand on the wall. As soon as Brock got back to the door, he’d extinguish it, and Tony needed to be ready for that.

Sure enough, a few moments later the light went out, and Tony heard the very faint sound of stone scraping as the door was closed. Oh, hell, he hoped it opened from the inside... But at least he didn’t have to worry as much about Brock hearing him.

He made his way to the end of the tunnel and felt all around the door. He found a bit of wood wedged into the stone -- a handle, maybe? -- but when he tugged on it, it only broke off in his hand, too old and rotten and brittle to shift the heavy door.

Tony tried pushing on the door. Wedged his fingers into the stones and pulled until they felt like they were bleeding. It didn’t budge in the slightest.

It was very dark. The darkness was palpable. Pushing down on him. Like it had a life, a presence, of its own. Like it wanted Tony to be lost in it, and was happy that he was.

Which was ridiculous, and Tony scolded the childish part of himself for, well, being _childish_.

_A soldier’s often afraid, he just gets the job done anyway._

He felt around a little more, frantic. He had no idea what time it was, but surely Bucky would be missing him soon. But where would he even begin to look?

Tony turned and stared with burning eyes into the deep gullet of the darkness. There was no hope for it: he was going to have to go back out the other way.

The tunnel seemed even longer this time. Miles and miles. Strange, ghostly images flared in front of his eyes, and his footsteps seemed unbearably loud.

The first time he reached one of the hiding rooms and his hand lost contact with the wall, he nearly overbalanced and fell over. _Stop that,_ he told himself angrily. _It’s only the dark, it can’t hurt you!_ He took a step, groping wildly. Another step, and he wobbled, nearly falling again.

A soft whine echoed in the darkness, and it took Tony a long moment to realize that it was coming from his own throat. He swallowed, hard, and cut it off. Another step-- And there was the wall again. He could have wept with gratitude.

He had to pass two more rooms the same way, each time harder than the last. But at last his fingertips encountered spongy moss, and his hesitant steps ran into the stairway. He crawled up the stairs. There was no dignity to preserve, here, and if he fell... Well. He _couldn’t_ fall.

There was a wind, outside, that made the mausoleum above him seem to breathe like a great beast. Tony’s questing fingers found the wooden trapdoor and pushed. It didn’t move.

For a moment, he feared that it had been blocked off, locked, perhaps, by the departing Hydra spy. But he shoved again, and it banged open loudly, and echo that set off the howling of dogs again. Tony scrambled out into the open night air, and the starlight seemed almost too bright for his eyes.

He clung to one of the nearest gravestones and shook for a moment, but-- no. He forced himself to his feet. He wasn’t safe until he was back at the castle, back in Bucky’s arms.

The castle was easy enough to spot -- The towers were tall, and he hadn’t come so far that it was behind the mountain -- but it seemed a very long way away.

Tony gritted his teeth and marched toward it.


	15. Chapter 15

Bucky had a bath filled for him and washed off the dirt and sweat of the day. Scrubbed his hair clean.

Got out and laid down, quite naked, on the bear skin rug before the fire, letting his hair and skin dry. Tony shouldn’t be too long, and maybe Bucky could tempt him into a roll in front of the fire before they went off to bed.

But he was eventually all dry, and Tony was still not back. Somewhat grouchy, Bucky pulled on one of his night rails. He oiled the steel in his cap arm, to keep rust away, and then screwed on the stump end. And then he wrapped the whole thing up with a length of plaid. He’d rolled over on Tony one time in the night and managed to get some of Tony’s hair caught in the join. They didn’t plan a repeat of that incident.

Brushed out his hair, slowly, until it was crackling with static but tangle free, a process that took longer one handed than perhaps it should, and made the whole mess incredibly bushy, since he had to brush with his head hung upside down at some points, to reach.

Still no Tony.

There was inspecting the walls and duty, and then there was obsession.

Bucky wrapped a bit of tartan around his shoulders, so as not to offend the sensibilities of his Clan if they happened to see him wandering around at night. He walked out of his bedchamber, past the spouse’s room -- Tony had yet to move his things from Bucky’s room, and if he didn’t wish his own bedchamber, Bucky certainly wasn’t going to suggest it -- and out to the wraparound balcony that overlooked most of the keep.

The stone floors were cold against his bare feet, but he forgot it soon enough.

The night was moonless, and the stars were bright and lovely as diamonds against the black velvet sky.

He waited, letting his eyes adjust to the night, scanning the walls slowly, first the inner wall, and then the curtain-- and then along the inside of the walls, searching for a moving figure.

There was no one. The guards were all in their various stations, probably playing cards and boasting, if the few months Bucky had taken his turn on the wall were any indication. From time to time, someone walked a patrol from one tower to another. It was not, perhaps, the safest arrangement. Bucky kept an ear for the hall clock while he searched. There was plenty of time, between patrols, for someone to make their way to the castle without being spotted.

Tighten the guard, Bucky decided. They relied too much from alarm bells in the town and the safety of the castle walls and not quite enough on good, human eyes and ears.

No Tony.

But no ruckus, either, which he was certain would happen if Tony had done something like fallen down a set of the stairs on the inside wall.

Knowing Tony, he’d found some ancient soldier and had convinced them to discuss the workings of the portcullis -- still not functioning -- and that really needed to be repaired. As it was, a child could practically push it open, and they’d been using the postern gate for years to bring in labor and supplies.

Bucky sighed and headed down to the walls.

“Buchanan,” one of the soldiers greeted him as the rest scrambled to look at attention.

“Have you seen my husband?”

“Run off on you already?”

Bucky didn’t even bother to answer that with a glare. “He went to look at the walls earlier this evening, and he’s not come to bed yet. He gets distracted, I thought someone might have seen him.”

“I sawr him, somewhat, after the dinner,” one of the soldiers told him. “Out by one of the towers.”

“We’ll set up a look out for him,” the sergeant said. “Give these men some work, earn their pay?”

Bucky sighed, rolled his shoulder, which ached a little being out in the cool evening air without much cover. “Yeah, do that, will you?”

“We’ll find him,” the man promised.

Bucky nodded. “I’ll look ‘round a bit myself,” he said.

They didn’t find him.

Hours passed, and there was no sign of him.

Bucky went from mildly amused to mildly alarmed to deeply troubled in the three hours that they hadn’t found Tony.

True, the castle and the grounds were extensive, but it wasn’t like anyone was making a secret of looking. Not like Tony had any reason to _hide_.

***

Tony didn’t know what time it was, but by the time he’d rounded the castle and was coming up on the postern gate, he suspected it was very much closer to dawn than midnight. His feet hurt. His knee twinged from where he’d turned his foot on a loose stone. His arms were raw from being lashed by brambles.

The only thing that kept him moving at all, was knowing that Brock Rumlow was there, at the keep, doing who knew what to secure his treasonous power.

He was going to tell Bucky about that, then fall into bed and refuse to move for at least two days, he decided.

“Ho, the castle!” he called, as soon as he thought the gate guards would be able to hear him. “Come and let me in!”

The postern door creaked open, and a light flared in Tony’s face. A moment later, he found himself looking down the barrel of a highly illegal gun. “You. Shut your mouth.”

Rumlow.

Tony opened his mouth, and Rumlow hefted the gun. Tony closed his mouth again. He held up his hands slowly. He had no advantage here, none at all.

Rumlow scoffed. “He’s got the whole castle turned out, looking for you, and here I am, the one who found you. Must be my lucky day. Go on, that way--” He shook the gun at Tony, pushing him back down the road. Away from the castle. Away from _witnesses_.

Tony stepped back, slowly. “You don’t have to do this,” he said softly.

“I kinda do,” Rumlow said. “Hydra’s coming, and they’ve got numbers we can’t beat. They’ve agreed to let us alone, with… some concessions. You understand. Two lives, in exchange for many? It’s nothing personal.”

“Kinda feels personal,” Tony muttered. “We can still defeat them, there’s time. I can come up with something.”

“Oh, you will,” Rumlow said. “For Hydra, I suppose. You and that madman. He thinks he knows you, got all teary-eyed about it. Yeah, someone put their stick in his skull and gave his brains a twist. He’s no fit leader. Guess they’ll put him in a cage and cut something off every time you don’t do what they say. Wonder how long that’ll last, before you’re disgusted with him, along with everyone else.” The pistol poked him a few times, hard, in the back.

Tony stumbled a few steps, recovered, shot a glare at Rumlow over his shoulder. “They won’t keep their word, you know. They may give you a season or two, but they’ll come back soon enough.”

“Well, then, you’ll tell me you told me so from hell, I imagine,” Rumlow said. “The question really remains-- where to stash you for a day or so, until I can figure a way to get the Buchanan off his crazy ass.”

“He’s not crazy,” Tony said between gritted teeth. “He’s not crazy, and you’re not going to get away with this.”

“Hydra wants you alive,” Rumlow told him, leaning close and talking directly into Tony’s ear. “But they didn’t say you had to have all your teeth. Or your pretty face. Shut it, or you won’t like the consequences.”

Tony bit down on his retort and focused on the road. Maybe... maybe if Rumlow dropped his guard, he could make a break for it. He didn’t think Rumlow would shoot him. They were still close enough to the castle that the sound of gunfire would bring the soldiers running.

Rumlow shoved him off the road, and practically into a ditch, ankle deep with muddy water. “In view of the tower now,” Rumlow grunted. “Keep your head down or I’ll blow it off and take my chances with Hydra.” The man seemed to be getting a little frantic, and Tony realized that Rumlow didn’t have a plan, he was playing the whole thing by guess. If Tony didn’t end up dead in a ditch before morning, he’d be-- well, probably not _lucky_. Since the alternative was in Hydra hands.

He took a few steps in the water as Rumlow prodded at him. A barn owl hooted, close by.

Tony looked around, wondering where it was. He didn’t want the owl swooping down on him and knocking him into the ditch.

Trying not to look like a tasty mouse for an owl, Tony was utterly unprepared when a light, thin shape leaped out from behind a scrubby bush, yelled “Get down!” and threw something at Rumlow.

Which promptly exploded, knocking Tony straight into the ditch.

Taken aback as he was, Tony had dealt with explosions before, though primarily on the testing grounds of his father’s gunpowder factory. He discovered that on instinct, he’d wrapped his arms around his head when a thin hand closed on his wrist and tried to tug him up.

Tony looked up to see-- “Steve?”

Steve said something. Tony wasn’t sure what, his ears still ringing from the blast.

He was dizzy and exhausted and terrified, but Steve was yelling something -- Tony couldn’t hear any of it -- and yanking at Tony’s arm.

A flicker of rage and terror crossed over Steve’s face, and a heavy hand landed on Tony’s shoulder, yanking him around. Rumlow, bleeding from what looked like hundreds of tiny cuts on his face and arms, skin blackened and burned in places, clothing still smoldering and stinking of blood, burning flesh, and… herbs?

“I’ll see you in hell--”

Well, Tony heard that well enough. The gun--

Steve was there, suddenly. Again. Grabbed Rumlow’s arm and _bit_ him, teeth sinking into his wrist. Rumlow howled, smashed Steve in the face, knocking him aside, but the gun was gone, at least. On the road, dull grey in the darkness.

Tony lunged for it, scrambling, the mud in the ditch sucking at his feet. He had to get to it before Rumlow. _Had_ to--

Rumlow grabbed him around the middle, threw him to the ground. “I don’t think so.” He was straddling Tony’s chest, squashing all the air out of him. Tony squirmed, struggling to get free, to get away. To just _breathe_.

Didn’t Scots carry a knife in their stocking? He groped for it, a little thin thing, wickedly sharp, the hilt protruding from the top of Rumlow’s sock.

He had it, he had it--

Rumlow grabbed his wrist, pushing-- they were slick with mud, like wrestling with an eel. Rumlow twisted, and--

Pain exploded through Tony’s chest.

“Bollocks,” Rumlow said, swearing, looking down at him. “What-- what did you have to go and do that for, you damned fool?” Rumlow got off him, and Tony still couldn’t breathe.

“Don’t move, Brock--” Steve had the gun.

“He’s dying,” Rumlow said, pointing at Tony. “You can keep me prisoner for the law, or you might be able to save him. Not both.”

“I could kill you.”

“Do it, then,” Rumlow said, turning his back and limping off down the road. “Do it. I got nothing left… nothing left to lose.”

His cackling laughter trailed along behind him.

“Fuck me running,” Steve said. He lowered the gun and dropped to Tony’s side.

Tony tried again to draw a breath, but nothing happened, he simply _couldn’t_. He batted weakly at Steve’s hand, trying to grip, trying to tell him: _Hydra._ The pain in his chest spiked, flared, and the edges of his vision went grey.

Steve was saying something, something important, something urgent, but the grey closed in, and Tony went away.

***

Bucky had lived through a stable fire when he was a lad. A horse had kicked over a lantern and started the blaze. They’d managed to get it out before too much damage was done, but even now, he would sometimes wake in the middle of the night, thinking he heard the alarm bells.

He wasn’t even asleep and the jolting, jangling cry of the bells sent thrills of panic through him. He was halfway down the stairs, barefoot and his night rail flapping around his legs before he even thought to see what the matter was.

Bucky practically fell out one of the narrow windows. “Ho there, what news?”

The guard at the gate craned his neck to look up at Bucky. “We heard shots!” he called back, waving to indicate general direction. “Gunfire, for sure!”

Bucky scanned the courtyard. “Where th’ hell is Rumlow, this is his job--”

If Rumlow was down with the kitchen scullery maid again, Bucky was going to insist he marry the poor girl and put everyone out of their misery. He flapped his hand at the guard-- “Carry on.” --and went upstairs to get his shoes and kilt.

He was just striding across the courtyard, a pair of knives tucked into his belt when three guards came in, carrying a crude litter made from plaids and sabers. Steve was trotting along next to the patient, taking four jogging steps for each two of theirs.

Steve looked up and saw him, and he went pale. He said something to the men carrying the litter, then dashed toward Bucky, hands outstretched. “Buck--”

There was blood on Steve’s hands. Not unusual, if--

“Who’s been shot?” Bucky demanded, trying to see who the still figure was on the litter. “The guards said they heard a pistol discharge.”

“Buck, look at me,” Steve insisted. “Promise ye’ll nae do somethin’ dumb.”

“Who is that?” Bucky asked. He turned his chin toward Steve, but his eyes kept tracking the litter, ice freezing up his spine, everything in his gut turning to lead. He knew, he knew, and it felt as though looking at Steve would make it true.

“He’s not shot,” Steve said, low and urgent. “Th’ gun went off, but it didn’t hit nothin’ but dirt.”

“There’s blood on your hands,” Bucky said, and he went to push past Steve, to see for himself, but even the thought of that blood -- was it, it _was_ , wasn’t it? If Steve wouldn’t let him see -- on Bucky’s own clothes, turned his stomach and he couldn’t move, efficiently pinned in place.

Steve’s lips thinned. “Stabbed, a little,” he admitted. “Missed the heart, but I think it nicked a lung.”

“HOW do you get a _little bit stabbed?_ ” Bucky raised his voice, but stopped as soon as he realized everyone was looking, rather than carrying on getting Tony settled in the apothecary. And it _was_ Tony, it was, and Bucky couldn’t stand it, even if he was still staring, waiting for proof, wanting to believe so hard that it wasn’t that he could change the world.

“Th’ bastard got away,” Steve confessed. “It was chase ‘im down or help Tony, an’ I’m a _healer_ , Buck.”

One of the guards raced ahead to get the door. The litter tilted for a moment before they got it straight again. The man in the litter groaned, shifted. His arm slipped free, and dangled off the side, fingers twitching slightly. Blood and mud coated a long-fingered hand, graceful wrist. And an Englishman’s jacket.

“Tony?” Bucky asked, still hoping Steve would tell him no. “Is that my Tony?”

“He’s gonna be all right,” Steve promised. “Promise you won’t go roarin’ off after th’ bastard, not yet.”

Bucky finally managed to turn his head and look at Steve. He’d assumed Tony had been hurt by a bandit, a scout, a spy, but the way Steve was talking-- “Who? Who did this?”

Steve looked grim. “Rumlow.”

Bucky jerked, as if someone had stabbed him instead. “Brock? _Why_?” But it seemed to break the lock that icy fear had on his legs and he moved. Part of him ached to have someone throw a saddle on his mount. He’d hunt Brock to the end of the earth. But the more urgent part of him carried him toward the apothecary, and his husband. He stopped only long enough to urge Steve in before him, then--

“There’s so much blood,” Bucky said, air freezing in his chest. His lungs didn’t want to work, his mind spinning frantically. _Tony, Tony, Tony._

“An’ there’s gonna be more,” Steve said tightly. “If ye’re gonna stay, hold him down; I’ve got to vent th’ lung so it’ll reinflate.”

Bucky went to Tony’s side. Tony was pale, almost waxy, and he was filthy, like someone had pitched him in the moat. He wasn’t moving or screaming, and Bucky didn’t know if that was good, or bad. “I’m here, bonnie,” Bucky told him, picking up one dirty hand and pressing his mouth to the fingers. But he couldn’t hold Tony’s hand and help keep him still at the same time, so as Steve prepared to do his surgery, Bucky let go, to lean on his husband’s arm and keep him down. “You, go an’ fetch my arm, so I can do this proper,” he told one of the guards, most of them milling around just outside the door like a pack of magpies, gabbing and gossiping and fluttering uselessly.

Truth, the man looked relieved for a task he could accomplish. He took off sprinting.

Tony’s shirt had already been pulled open; now Steve took up a pair of shears and cut it all the way off, baring a chest that was matted with blood and grime. Tony was breathing, but only half his chest lifted and fell. The wound was nearly perfectly placed in the center of his chest, big enough to make Bucky’s blood run cold with fear.

Steve splashed Tony’s skin with alcohol, making him moan weakly, then swabbed it down with a clean rag. “Got to see what the hell I’m doin’.”

The guard ran back in with Bucky’s arm and held it in place so Bucky could get it on. Twisting awkwardly, Bucky leaned on Tony's shoulders, fake hand on the injured side, hopefully the one he'd be less inclined to thrash about with.

He didn't want to do this, but he knew damn well he'd hate any other man who held Tony down while he was in agony.

“Ready?” Steve didn’t wait for an answer, just took up his scalpel and began to cut. The sound of flesh parting was grotesquely loud in the small room,

Tony groaned and twitched, but Steve didn’t let up, just kept going, pausing only to wipe away the fresh flow of blood from time to time. It wasn’t long before he changed instruments, taking up a small tube, sharpened on one end. “Eagle’s feather,” Steve murmured, though Bucky hadn’t asked. “They’re hollow and strong enough to punch through sinew.”

He worked the sharpened end into the incision he’d made. Tony whimpered and strained against Bucky’s hold. “Nearly there,” Steve said. “Nearly...” He shoved suddenly, and the feather core pushed a solid finger’s width deeper. Tony bucked and cried out as a soft whistling sound came from the tube.

Steve sighed. “There. That’ll do it, if anything can.”

Tony took another of those shallow, lopsided breaths. Another.

“C’mon, you can do it,” Steve urged. “Don’t come over all prissy English on me, now.”

Another soft groan, and his chest moved. All of it. Still shallow, still weak, but the next breath was stronger, a little deeper.

Steve practically slumped in relief. “There’s a lad.” He reached for a roll of bandages, and Bucky helped him bind them carefully into place. “He’ll need t’stay here for a bit, ‘til I’m sure that lung won’t collapse again.”

“Tony?” Bucky had to practically wrench the artificial arm to get the elbow joint to release and shift. “Ho there, bonnie. How do you feel?”

Tony’s eyes didn’t open, but his head turned toward Bucky a little.

“Better for him if he can stay out a little longer,” Steve said. “Give me some time to prepare a laudanum draft.”

He kept his voice low, but Tony still reacted to it, eyes moving behind their lids, head turning to catch the sounds. “Aye, of course,” Bucky said, not looking away from Tony's pale face. “Tell me what happened, while you work. How… why? Rumlow?”

“Swear I don’t know,” Steve said. He grabbed another rag and started wiping off his hands. “I was out herb-gathering -- they last longer if I can cut ‘em with the morning dew still on ‘em -- an’ I saw Rumlow marchin’ Tony up th’ road at gunpoint. Managed t’ distract ‘im for a bit, got the pistol out of his hand, but...” He spread his hands. “We ain’t fighters, neither of us. Not like Rumlow is. Got out his _sgian-dubh_ an’ stuck it in Tony before I could shoot ‘im, an’ ran off while I was trying to keep Tony from bleeding out.”

Bucky's stomach went sour and stiff. “I will kill him,” he swore. It took all his strength not to roar in fury, not to rage and break and storm. “Damn his eyes, _why_?”

Bucky knew not everyone was fond of his English groom, but… to try to _murder_ Tony? That made no sense. Rumlow had to know it would make him an outcast. That he could never come back, which meant he was clanless… easy prey for bandits and Hydra.

“I wish I knew,” Steve agreed. “Maybe Tony’ll know more, when he wakes up.”

Bucky took a deep breath. _When Tony wakes up…_

“Yeah, when Tony wakes up.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

Breathing hurt. Every breath was like a knife in his chest. Possibly literally.

On the other hand, he was awake to feel the pain, and Tony had to admit he was slightly surprised at that. And now that he was becoming aware of the world, he was lying on something soft, which probably -- hopefully -- meant that Rumlow hadn’t dragged him off to Hydra.

Maybe. He wasn’t sure he wanted to open his eyes and find out.

But if Hydra didn’t have him, he needed to warn Bucky about Rumlow right away. Oh, God -- how long had he been out? What if--

“Bucky!” he gasped, his eyes flying open of their own accord. He tried to sit up, too, but the pain spiked and left him helplessly prone, trying to take fast, short breaths that didn’t hurt so much.

There was a grunting, almost growling sound, like someone had forgotten to feed the pigs, and a clatter of something against the floor. “Hmm? Wha?” and then it dissolved into a snore. Slitting his eyes, Tony managed to turn his head to one side and there was a blurry lump of Buchanan plaid wrapped around a shape in a chair.

“Bucky,” he whispered, sighing in relief and not even minding that it made the pain flare a little higher. “You’re okay.”

Bucky made another noise, then-- “Oh! You’re awake, bonnie.” He straightened rapidly, then made a face as his spine crackled alarmingly. “How’re you feeling? After Steve dragged you off the road to Final Judgement by your hair, an’ all.” He put one hand very lightly over Tony’s, just the slightest contact, and that with trembling fingers, like he hadn’t been sure Tony was ever going to wake again.

Tony turned his hand over, sliding his fingers into Bucky’s, desperately grateful for that contact. “Bucky, love. Hydra... Rumlow made a deal with Hydra. You have to...” He coughed and winced at the sharp feeling in his chest. He reached up with his other hand to prod gingerly at the bandages.

“Ach, careful there, bonnie,” Bucky said, leaning forward to snag Tony’s hand and push it down lightly against the bed. “There’s a wee-- bit of bird quill in your chest. You don’t want to be knocking that out.”

“Bird... quill.” Vaguely, Tony remembered something about... an owl? He shook his head. “Rumlow,” he said urgently. “You have to stop him.”

“He’s tucked tail an’ run, like the murdering scum he is,” Bucky growled. “An’ there’s no place for him here. He’s struck from the Clan, as soon as Sunday. But we don’t… we don’t know where he’s gone. He ducked off the road not more’n a league away, when we tried to track him.”

“Damn,” Tony sighed. “Maybe he tucked tail and crawled to Hydra, though I don’t know what use they’ll have for him, without his access to the castle. They wanted... they wanted him to bring us back. You and me.”

“What? Bring us to Hydra? What-- how do you know all this?” Bucky brushed Tony’s hair back from his face. “You’re fevered again. Here, let me-- it’s old, but here, Steve went to sleep, he said you could have a little tea and more medicine, for the pain. I _know_ , bonnie, Hydra. We’ll get to it, but it won’t do any good if you’re too weak to tell me.”

Tony opened his mouth to argue, and Bucky stuck the spout of an invalid cup into it and poured in a measure of room-temperature tea. Tony sputtered a little and swallowed, rather than be drowned. “Ugh,” he complained. “It’s not even warm.”

“Well, next time ye get yourself stabbed, don’t be unconscious for near two days, husband of mine,” Bucky said, and his cheerful, sickbed face cracked a moment, eyes shimmering, before he composed himself. “I can make you up some warm, if you like. Won’t take but a shake.”

“I’d rather not get stabbed again at all, if I can avoid it,” Tony said. “I don’t know if you know this, but it hurts rather a lot.” Probably not as much as losing an arm, or having a steel cap literally welded to what was left of that arm. Tony made a face. “Bring me the tea, I’ll drink it. But did you know there’s a passage out of the castle that goes all the way to the cemetery?”

“Well, I’ve not been stabbed in my lung and had the whole thing deflate like a child’s pig-bladder balloon, but I’ve taken a knife or two in my time,” Bucky told him, as if he was an old, old man. He mixed a few drops of water with a powder on a piece of paper. “Here, Steve says this will taste very bad, but help with the pain and you’re not to spit it out, because it’s very expensive.” He mimicked Steve’s voice fairly well, the cadence totally different from how Bucky normally spoke. “And tea. And then you can tell me-- secret passageway? You found one of ‘em? There’s near a dozen that we know about. Rumored there’s more.”

“Oh, don’t make me laugh,” Tony whined, “it hurts to laugh.” He eyed the paste on the paper distrustfully, then screwed up his nose and licked it down. “Oh god, that’s _vile_. Give me more tea, quick.” At least the nasty, bitter powder made the tea somewhat palatable. He dropped his head back down and took a moment to breathe, slow and careful. But after a few moments, the pain -- and everything else -- turned fuzzy and soft. It wasn’t _gone_ , so much as Tony found he didn’t much care about it.

He reached for Bucky’s hand again, and told the whole tale -- the passage, and Rumlow, and Hydra, and getting stuck out. Rumlow again, and Steve. “He was incredibly brave,” Tony said. “I’ve much to thank him for, it seems.”

“Don’t we both?” Bucky wondered. “He seems to have a knack for being in the right place, at the right time. Even if he has to fall on you to get there.”

Bucky puttered around the little room, setting the kettle over the fire to heat, straightening out Tony’s blankets, and then moving the items on the table into some different, random order that probably didn’t even make sense to Bucky.

“Tony-- I thought-- I thought we’d lost you,” Bucky finally burst, his back to Tony, shoulders shaking.

“But you didn’t,” Tony said. “I’m right here. I’m going to get better. Promise.” He wasn’t entirely sure that was true, but admitting that was definitely not the right thing to do just then. “Bucky, love, come here, give me a kiss. It’ll be all right.”

Bucky moved back over to the bed’s side, practically fell in the chair. He picked up Tony’s hand, rested it on the artificial arm. “It’ll be fine, aye, you said it,” Bucky told him. “Hold you to that. I will, I swear it.” He leaned over, like Tony was made of fine porcelain, and kissed his mouth, just a brief nuzzle, before pulling back.

Tony tried to chase after Bucky’s mouth, but his body was having none of it. “We, mm, may want to make some changes to the tunnel -- tunnels -- that lead out of the walls,” he said. “Something that will keep the doors from being opened from the far end.”

“That’s certain,” Bucky said. “They’re meant t’ keep rot like Hydra out, or give us an escape, not a welcome mat. Do you-- do you think he was alone in his plotting, or do we have to worry that each man guardin’ the gate is in Hydra’s pay?”

Tony bit his lip. That was the sticking point, wasn’t it? “I... think Hydra was only dealing with him. But I don’t know which of his men he might have told. Promised them high positions or wealth or land when he took over your seat.”

“We’ll have to question everyone,” Bucky said, sighing and dropping his face into his hand. “And we’ve not time for it. We need to secure the castle, and prepare. I knew Rumlow was… shallow, and power hungry. But I didn’t think he’d betray his own clan like this. I’m sorry-- I’m sorry that he hurt you.”

“That wasn’t your doing, love,” Tony said. “That was all him. And we’ll make him sorry for it.”

“Aye, bonnie, that we will,” Bucky said, and if he was a little wet around the eyes when he kissed Tony’s forehead, that was no one’s business but their own.

***

The only bright spot in Bucky’s day -- in his _week_ \-- was that Tony was finally well enough to be moved from the apothecary’s and back up to the Duke’s quarters. Which was probably good, because Bucky desperately needed a restful night, and sleeping in a chair next to an invalid cot wasn’t doing him any good.

It hardly mattered that first day, as Bucky was kept below for almost the whole time. He saw Tony tucked back into the huge feather bed, assigned a maid and a footman to him, and then got to work.

He had masons and bricklayers drawing up plans to block over the tunnel Rumlow (and then Tony) had stumbled over. It would hardly do a lick of good, there might not be enough time to let a curtain wall’s mortar set before an attack would come. He was still trying to think if there might be a way to lure Hydra in to a trap, there.

Bucky ordered the castle secured -- none of the fighting force were allowed to leave -- until loyalty could be ensured. Which was not, he knew, the way to promote loyalty, but Bucky didn’t know what else to do.

There was no way to know who Rumlow had confided in, if anyone.

“Four more days until the post comes,” he said, as he pushed into the Duke’s chambers, “and I’ve still to decide if I let the mail go out or not, knowing that anythin’ might be a missive to Hydra allies, informing them of the change at the castle.”

Tony was… not in bed, as he should have been.

He was sitting at Bucky’s desk, carving something with a whittling knife. “You can’t hold the mail indefinitely,” he pointed out. He looked up at Bucky with a warm smile, then went back to his carving, carefully shaving off tiny slivers and holding the piece up to the light to inspect it.

“Nor can we afford the ill-will of the clan, or even of business. We shall have to risk it. The last thing we need is squabbling inside the walls, as well as possible invasion from Hydra. With no Captain, I’m losing precious time keepin’ the men settled and orderly. And I’ve no idea who I can trust enough in that role. Who knows who Rumlow’s corrupted?”

Bucky threw himself face down on the bed, since Tony wasn’t in it, and groaned into his pillow.

Tony put down his carving and came to sit on the side of the bed, gingerly careful of his healing wounds. He patted Bucky’s shoulder consolingly. “You could just put Becca in charge of the lot,” he said.

“I should love to see the look on-- are you _serious_?” Bucky pushed away from the bed to look at Tony in shock.

“Why not?” Tony asked. “You can trust her loyalties -- if Becca decides you need to be killed, she’ll do it herself. And they all like her well enough, and she’s clever. Willing to do what needs to be done to protect the clan.”

“It’s not entirely impossible,” Bucky thought. “She knows the sword as well as any man. Father was -- well, she always was his favorite, and when she expressed an interest in learning, he let her. And she was close with Brock, out of necessity, not friendship, it’s true, but... Anyone he trusted might well trust her.” The more he turned the idea over in his head, the more he liked it. It was unconventional, of course, but, “It just might work. Thank you, Tony, that’s brilliant. Although I notice you are not resting, as I distinctly remember you being told to do.”

“I’m not... _not_ resting,” Tony hedged. “It’s not like carving strains my breathing. And I have all these _ideas_.”

Well, the idea of installing Becca as Captain was a fair one, Bucky decided. “Just, go careful, if you will,” he said. “There’s no sense wasting Steve’s healing skills by undoing all his hard work.” He glanced over at the pile of shavings on the desk. “What sort of ideas?”  

Tony beamed at him. “Well, I was thinking about how to fix the main portcullis so you wouldn’t have to rely on the postern gate all the time, and I think I’ve worked out a way to make opening and closing it twice as fast with half the manpower. And, well, catapults aren’t _new_ , but I think I can scale them down so they can be mounted on the walls while still making them strong enough to discourage attackers. And I’m still in the early phases -- I don’t have the materials to test it -- but I think I can make candle that burns about three times longer than beeswax ones.”

Bucky was flat out, gaping, eyes straining in their sockets, by the time Tony was finished. Bucky knew Tony as a boy, with his clockworks and his carvings, but he hadn’t really considered any practical applications of that brilliance. And if any -- much less _all_ \-- of his ideas could be harnessed?

“Tell me what you need,” Bucky said, sitting up. “Manpower, obviously, I don’t want you so much as within ten feet of an anvil right now, much less swinging a hammer. Materials, a workspace-- I know I promised you one years ago-- apprentices.” He took Tony’s hand and kissed the knuckles, slightly scuffed and dirty from wood working. “Have I told you, today, that I love you?”

“Most likely,” Tony said, but he looked pleased all the same. “I’d not need much. I’ll make you a list.” He leaned in carefully to claim a kiss. “We won’t let Hydra take the castle,” he promised.

“I won’t let Hydra take _you_ ,” Bucky promised in return. “My terrifying, adorable, _brilliant_ husband.”

Tony blushed and scoffed. “I’m not terrifying.” He pushed carefully up and made his way back to the desk. “I have a couple of vague ideas of ways we can trap the far ends of the escape tunnels, if Hydra tries to send people in that way. They’re still sketchy, though. I’ll let you know if I come up with something workable.”

“A big pile of rocks tends to dissuade people from digging through it, but then we’ll have to move them ourselves, twice. Once in and once out again,” Bucky said. “I’ve a small team scouring the walls and outbuildings for any more passages. And Carter is going to send us up some dinner, so-- put that down and come lay down for a bit. I don’t want you to strain anything-- not the least of which is my own nerves, watching you flutter about when you were that close to Heaven’s gates.”

Tony opened his mouth as if he was going to protest, but then he looked at Bucky’s face and his scowl melted. “All right,” he conceded. “For a little while. For _you_. As long as you stay with me.” He came back to the bed, looking as if _he_ was the one taking care of _Bucky_.

“If you like,” Bucky said, settling himself onto the bed where Tony could lean against him and let Bucky play with his hair. The most important thing in Bucky’s life, right there, at his side. It was enough to make him thank his Creator for the gift, and enough to make him curse his stars, that anything might befall Tony. “There you are, my bonnie, lay still and I’ll keep watch, until supper. Shall I tell you one of our highland stories, to send you off to sleep?” He kissed Tony’s hair, smelled the faint medicinal odor, and Tony’s soap. “Take your time, not even Hydra can muster an army against us this day, or even in a month. We have time for you to get better.”

“Good,” Tony said, yawning already. “Might not be up to running for a few days.” He nestled in close to Bucky, warm and safe. “Story sounds nice.”

“So, in my grandfather’s time, a great lord was quite close with his husband, and the husband, he lay very ill. So the lord…” Bucky recalled the story of the changeling spouse and the faeries who’d nearly carried him away, lowering his voice until he was nearly whispering it, and Tony went soft and pliant into sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

Tony drew up the plans for the portcullis, though Bucky wouldn’t let him lift so much as a finger to help with the actual building of the great winch. He’d lurked in the yard, though, watching and directing. He was confident in his design, but when they told him it was done, he had an attack of nerves.

“What if they didn’t do it right?” he fretted, watching them wind the chain and set the counterweights. “What if the chain’s not strong enough?”

Becca, who looked sternly martial in her newly stitched up Captain’s regalia, patted him on the shoulder. “Then the portcullis will smash down onto the doorway and we shan’t be able to move it. Again. In short, very little will have changed, on the practical level, aside from some wasted time in the smithy. Relax.”

Tony gave Becca the driest look he could muster. “Thank you. Always so helpful.”

“Pretty sure th’ breaking strain on that chain could handle at least a brace of oxen, so you’re probably fine,” Becca said. “And you were practically crawling up the blacksmith’s kilt the entire time. It’ll work.”

“I was not! I just had a few suggestions, is all!” Tony sniffed at her. “And for God’s sake, don’t phrase it like that where Bucky can hear you.”

“I rather doubt my brother would believe you daft enough to be drooling over Erik Lehnsherr,” Becca said. “The man is gifted with metal working, and it’s all he loves. Although, you are a talented metal worker yourself. He could--”

Becca grinned at him as Tony smacked her hand. “There. Distracted you-- look, she rises like the morning.”

“What?” Tony spun around in time to see the heavy gate climb the last few feet, to general cheering. “They did it.” He laughed and grabbed Becca around the waist, dancing her in a circle. “They did it!”

“ _You_ did it,” Becca told him, twisting into a gleeful promenade, which allowed her to accompany Tony over to the portcullis for the official inspection. The guard locked the gate position, and then stepped away, letting the new wheel hold it in place.

It didn’t even _creak_ , just stayed up like it didn’t weigh a thing.

Tony ran his hands over the mechanism, testing its feel and sturdiness. “Oh, you beauty, you’re amazing.” He turned to the guard. “How did it feel? Were there any snags or hiccups in the pull?” He was still questioning the bemused guard when Becca gently pulled him away, reminding him that he’d promised Bucky he would rest after the raising.

“You have to rest,” she told him. “I know you feel well now, but you won’t tomorrow, if you don’t set for a spell. And if you must do something useful, I’ll bring up my reports and you can help me go through the scouting missions. It’s even less thrilling than it sounds and I’d be glad of the company.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Either Bucky’s giving you instructions about me or this hennish clucking runs in the family. I’m _fine_.” But Bucky still had that slightly haunted look in his eyes whenever he looked at Tony, so Tony let Becca pull him away. He’d have plenty of time to talk to the guard later.

***

“Come and see for yourself,” Becca told Bucky, practically dragging him out of the breakfast room. “They’re right on the road and everything. Not but half a mile up the road. They’ll be here in less than an hour.”

“Who will?”

“The English,” Becca said. “English soldiers, you can practically smell their red coats from here.”

“Redcoats?” Bucky repeated, confused. He turned to his husband, as if Tony would know any more than he would, having been north for almost two months. The English sometimes sent troops up, if there was wind of rebellion, or if the taxes were unpaid, but Stark’s estate money had gone a long way to still those concerns.

He offered a hand to Tony, to help him up. “Get a coat for Tony,” he barked at one of the guards. “It’s cold on the walls.”

Tony rolled his eyes, even as he took Bucky’s hand. “I’m not a delicate flower, I can stand on the walls for half an hour without a coat.”

“Perhaps,” Bucky said, “but you do _have_ a coat, and it _is_ cold up there.” Tony had that look on his face that said he was prepared to argue about it the entire time, which was both frustrating and pointless. The last thing Tony needed was to catch a chill, his lungs already weakened from his wounding.

“You have a coat, too,” Tony pointed out. “I don’t see you calling for it. I’m nearly healed, you know.”

The guard caught up with them and Bucky grabbed the coat from him, rather imperiously flapping it in Tony’s direction. “Nearly is all well and good,” he said. “Ye don’t need a relapse, nor a chest cold. Wear the coat, Tony.” He would, if he had to, block the entire stairwell until Tony complied, but really-- “Truly, do you _enjoy_ being cold?”

Tony huffed and snatched the coat from Bucky’s hand, pulling it on with ill grace. “I’m _fine_ ,” he grumbled. “I’m not going to relapse.”

“Of course you’re not,” Bucky told him. “And I appreciate the care you’re taking with your health. It gives my mind an ease.” Stubborn thing, he was, too.

Truth, Bucky wasn’t sure why they were looking; red coats were red coats. No one else wore them, aside from the English soldiers. At one point, all of Scotland had hated the sight of them, but most of that had settled down. More or less.

“Has anyone thought to send out a runner, or are we just waiting to see if they’re going to fire upon the gates?”

“I sent Steve,” Becca said.

“Really?” Bucky wondered. “Why?”

“Let’s start with I’m Captain now, and my decisions are my own,” Becca said, crisply, reminding him. “But, he looks harmless, even if we all know he’s not. The English won’t fire on a lone man. He’s brave. And I trust his judgement. He’s got two of Tony’s smokers, one green, one red, in case they do decide to fire, or do anything else suspicious, and we haven’t had much time to train the men in their use.”

“First practical application of another of your wizard works,” Bucky said proudly to his husband.

“No wizardry, just chemistry and mechanics,” Tony protested, but it teased a bit of a smile out of him, regardless. “I trust they’re here for some honorable purpose.”

Well, of course Tony would believe that, he _was_ English. And it was probably true. The English had no reason to come for an attack, and if they were here for aggression, they would have sent more than-- perhaps thirty, total. Even without the use of guns, the Buchanan clan could defend against that many.

“Send a piper up, give them a proper welcome,” Bucky said. He squinted out toward the troops again, a mere blob of color on the road, without a spyglass.

A few tense moments later and a cloud of green smoke wafted into the sky. Steve wouldn’t lie, and he couldn’t possibly be bribed or coerced. “Raise the portcullis.”

“Shall we go down to greet them?” Tony suggested.

“Yes, we should,” Bucky said, even as he lingered on the wall, staring out as if he could determine their wants just by will alone. He’d prefer Tony to stay somewhere protected, until they knew for certain, but Tony wouldn’t stand for it, and the English would probably prefer to see one of their own, rather than a pack of rude highlanders, anyway.

Tony gave him a sharp look as they descended to the yard, as if he could sense that Bucky would prefer him stay behind, but as Bucky didn’t give voice to that thought, Tony didn’t rail against it. Which was all to the good, as Tony had been somewhat prickly of late.

Tony brushed down the arms of his coat, knocking loose invisible lint, and stood ramrod straight next to Bucky as the redcoats came into view.

Steve rode in first, his scrawny little pony the perfect mount for him, baskets unloaded for a change.

“Your grace,” Steve said, and that had to be painful, as Steve never called Bucky by title. “Uh, may I present Colonel Rhodes, of His Majesty’s army. Colonel, Duke Buchanan, and his spouse, Lord Stark.”

The Colonel dismounted, scowling fiercely. “So, it’s _Lord Stark_ now, is it? That’s rich.” He stalked forward, singling Tony out. Bucky took a step to the side, keeping himself between Tony and the Colonel--

Tony _laughed_ , as delighted a sound as Bucky had ever heard from him. “You knew the day was coming, sourpatch!” he chortled. He pushed past Bucky with blithe lack of concern, reaching out for the colonel even as he drew closer. “Why else would Father have sold me off, if not to secure a title for the Stark name? It’s probably the greater part of his penance in Hell, knowing that he didn’t live to enjoy it.” He gripped the colonel’s hand, then drew the man into a fond embrace.

“When your letter reached London, there was a stir,” the colonel said. “But each man here is a volunteer, some with family in the north. All hand picked and trustworthy.” He gave Bucky a quick bow, very martial and straight-backed. “According to the law, the Scots are not allowed firearms -- while, as Tony himself said, ‘tis a damned shame the lords are expected to defend their lands against the rebels when their lawful troops have no guns, but the rebels do.’ Thus, provided we earn your approval, your grace, we’ve come to winter in your castle. The militia will need to be quartered here for some time, and all military protocols observed, but if we should happen to be here when Hydra comes to your gate, we will be legally allowed to assist in the defense.”

Bucky stared, blinked, then turned to his husband. “Care to repeat that in a less formal tongue for those of us a little slow on the uptake?”

Tony was still arm-linked with the colonel, but he turned a fond smile on Bucky. “They’ll provide firepower when Hydra comes knocking,” he said. “We’ll have to find housing for them in the village, but I’m sure we can manage.” He turned to Rhodes with the wide eyes that Bucky knew personally were damned difficult to refuse. “You’ll guest with us in the keep, though, won’t you, lemondrop?”

Rhodes snorted. “Not if you keep making eyes at me, Tones,” he said. “You went and married yourself a bear of a man, and I don’t want him to get jealous.”

Which, of course, had the effect of making Bucky feel like a complete heel. “No, not at all. You must be James Rhodes. I believe I still have some letters that pertain to various mischiefs you got up to, during some of Tony’s schooling. This-- this is the captain of my guard, Rebecca Barnes. She’ll see to your men’s lodging.”

Becca didn’t _quite_ turn and stick her tongue out at him.

But she wanted to. Bucky could tell.

“Much obliged, your grace,” Rhodes said. “Tones--”

“Yes, thistleflower, I know, you’ll want to see to your men first,” Tony said agreeably. “Becca will bring you back up to the keep once you’re satisfied they’re all settled, and I’ll properly introduce you to my barbarian bear of a husband.” He let go of Rhodes with a pat on the shoulder and threaded his arm around Bucky’s instead, leaning into Bucky’s side.

“Quartering British troops,” Bucky said, low, as he turned Tony back toward the keep and the warmth of a fire. “That’ll raise more than a few eyebrows, and tempers. We’ll-- want to make plans for a few social events, to keep everyone entertained and spirits up.”

Becca, he knew, could be counted upon not to home wayward soldiers with families that didn’t have the spare room, or who had daughters and sons of age to flirt too much. Or fathers with tempers. Hopefully there’d be enough homes after that to go around. At least there were only thirty of them. And Rhodes, of course, who could guest directly in the castle. And maybe a few of his officers.

“He’s high ranking, to be up this way,” Bucky said. “What letter?”

Tony waved a hand airily. “I didn’t expect much to come of it,” he said. “I simply happened to mention the imbalance when I wrote my factor last month. He and Rhodey are old friends; must have mentioned it in passing, and well...” He smiled up at Bucky. “And now we’ll not be outgunned.”

“The ability to do something other than fling large rocks at Hydra is a great comfort,” Bucky said, patting Tony’s hand. “Come on inside, we’ll get a hot meal set up for your friend and his officers.”

***

Tony watched the English soldiers and Scot warriors mingling proudly. Becca had been the one to suggest a country dance as a way for them to get to know each other, and it had been an inspired idea.

Which was not to say that there wouldn’t be any scuffles -- some of the younger set were flirting rather outrageously with the soldiers, and a few fathers were already swelling with indignation. Not that Tony could blame the young folk -- fresh faces were always a welcome change. Well, as long as the disputes didn’t carry past fistfights, Tony would turn a blind eye.

The great hall of the keep looked lovely, decorated in harvest colors and lit with long-burning candles. The musicians were bouncing between Scottish reels and English country dances, and for the most part, everyone seemed delighted to show off for everyone else.

Bucky and Tony had led the opening promenade, a simple march and crossover, an obligation as hosts, and then Tony had found himself swept away into the dancing, first with his sister-in-law, and then one of Rhodey’s more daring young soldiers, and then Peggy Carter had appeared to be without a partner.

“Steve went and stepped on my foot again,” she complained to Tony as they went down the line. “And it’ll be a month before he finds his tongue to speak with me again. What utter nonsense.”

Tony laughed and turned her through the steps. “I could try to speak with him, if you like.”

“He thinks I’m easily offended,” Peggy said. “Or a glass doll. I should like to tell him I’m not so breakable, but I’m afraid he might take it as a slight.” She shook her curls out with a saucy toss of her head. “Yes, do see if you can find what corner he’s lurking in. I don’t intend to dance again tonight, unless it’s with him.”

“Well, then I’m honored you consented to allow me on your arm,” Tony said. He tried to look for Steve as they danced, but nearly everyone in the room dwarfed the healer, so it wasn’t likely to be successful. Still, once the musicians had stopped to take a breather and Tony had escorted Peggy to the refreshments table for a glass of punch, he prowled the edges of the room, looking for a sulking blond.

Bucky was making the rounds, and paused in between conversation about -- farming, ug, boring, even if it did pay the bills -- to draw Tony in and pat his hand a few times, as warm as a kiss on the cheek, before letting him wander away again.

He eventually found Steve off to one side of a group of older, married women and men, all with daughters and sons on the floor, all gossiping about prospects.

Steve was holding a glass with punch, but hadn’t drunk any of it.

It was pretty good, for party punch. Apple bites and sherry mixed with sugar water.

“I can find you something stronger, if the punch is too sweet,” Tony murmured, sliding into the space beside Steve. “You left Pegs rather disconsolate, you know. Hardly sporting of you.”

“I nearly knocked her over, I don’t ‘spect she’s much for any of my sport, tonight,” Steve said. He wasn’t looking out at the dance floor, either, staring at the spot between his ghillies, his boney knees sticking out of his kilt.

“You trod on her toe a bit,” Tony chided. “She was lively enough when I danced with her just now, so it couldn’t even have been that bad. I don’t think she wants you around for your dancing prowess.”

Steve scoffed. “There's not a woman in this castle that wants me around for any sort of prowess.” He turned the glass around a few times before taking a sip. “It's only Erskine passed on while we were in enemy hands that I've got a place at all. The clan was short a healer. They got half one, any rate.”

Tony rolled his eyes and flicked Steve’s ear. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” he said. “Bucky and I both owe you our lives. And Peggy told me she’s not dancing anymore tonight unless you ask her. So _go talk to her_.”

Steve made a dismissive noise, but handed Tony his barely touched punch. “I suppose the worst that can happen is she says no.”

Across the room, Bucky finished a conversation with one of the officers, moved off to stand near the musicians, watching the dance. A glass of champagne dangled in his fingers as he observed, a fond, wistful smile of his face. He looked especially regal in his full regalia, kilt pin flashing in the candlelight.

Tony sipped from Steve’s discarded punch and made his way across the room toward his husband. It took a while, as he stopped a dozen times to answer questions, proffer compliments, direct the servers, perform introductions, and otherwise play the host. But finally he reached his goal, tucking his arm through Bucky’s false one. “Aren’t you going to offer me a dance?” he teased.

“You've seen no lack of partners,” Bucky quipped, giving Tony a warm smile. “I think I shall never quite get over the English fashion of such tight trousers.” His eyebrows wiggled suggestively as he looked Tony carefully up and down.

Tony almost suggested that Bucky do something about his trousers, because Bucky’s kid-glove treatment had kept them both celibate while Tony healed, but the room was too crowded; someone would surely overhear. “No lack of partners,” he agreed instead, “but not the one I most want.”

“I'm…” Bucky hedged, glancing at the dancers, “there are some things that a man with only one arm truly cannot do. One of them is dance.” Bucky made a brief face, not quite a grimace. “I don't want to disappoint you. You must have missed this, not having a Season.”

“What would I want a Season for?” Tony wondered. “I like dancing, but there’s no need for either of us to miss it.” He eyed the line dance currently in progress, with its complicated gestures and hand clasps. “All right, you can’t dance to this, I’ll grant. But I expect the musicians could be tempted into playing a waltz for us.”

Bucky's eyes softened. “Oh aye, bonnie,” Bucky said. “I could dance the waltz.”

Oh, Tony loved that look on Bucky’s face. He leaned in to kiss Bucky’s cheek. “Let me just have a word with the maestro.”

There was a flurry of excitement when the musicians started the opening strains, as young people scrambled for a partner, or permission. Even in London, the waltz was still considered a little scandalous, but despite its reputation, there wasn’t a young man or woman in nearly any stretch of the British empire that didn’t know it.

Bucky twisted the elbow joint, to let him rest the false hand on Tony’s hip. “If you would join me, husband?”

“I should be delighted, husband,” Tony returned. He tucked himself into Bucky’s embrace and let himself enjoy the closeness of Bucky’s warmth as they joined the floor. “Thank goodness we’re married; I expect otherwise my chaperone wouldn’t allow it.”

“I know you didn’t have a London Season, as you were engaged to me,” Bucky said, moving him around the floor easily, lightly, his hand warm in Tony’s. “And truth, I’m glad that Father-- that the match was made. But I want you to know, if I’d had a Season, and you’d had one. I would still have picked you, out of any other in the whole world.”

Tony flushed at the compliment. “I’m sure I’d have driven my other suitors mad for comparing them to you,” he returned, smiling up into Bucky’s eyes. “Mercenary though their reasons were, it seems our fathers somehow found us each the best match possible.”

“Aye, that they did,” Bucky agreed. They moved together across the floor in some celestial dance, twirling and circling, as Bucky’s legs pressed against his in the steps, Bucky’s fingers on his hand, directing him with easily signals, never quite looking away from Tony’s face. “And I’m glad of it.”

The music swelled and rose, dropped and faded, and it seemed like a mere moment, but at the same time, all of eternity, as they danced in perfect harmony.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut-averse readers... come back next chapter. :D

The dance went on until the wee hours of the morning, and more than a few hasty engagements were likely to be announced in the next few days, as couples were found lingering in darkened corners.

Bucky all but carried his husband up the stairs, both of them leaning on each other and yawning. As hosts, it was their duty to stay until the last of the families were safely on their way.

“Becca should be well satisfied, at least,” Bucky muttered, pushing into their bedroom. “T’was wildly successful, for the first time we’ve had such a formal event.”

“Quite the smash,” Tony agreed, shedding his formal jacket and going to work on his cuffs. “Although now that it’s over, I seem to recall something about my tight trousers.” He shot Bucky an alluring smile, watching from under his eyelashes.

“Aye, bonnie, you’re practically indecent,” Bucky said, eyeing said trousers with interest. “You English, so uptight about about a lady’s ankle, and you walk around in pants s’ tight you might as well be showing your arse to everyone.”

“Well, maybe not quite _everyone_ ,” Tony purred, “but I wouldn’t mind showing it to you.” He came closer, sleeves hanging loose and shirt collar gaping, pressing in close to nuzzle at the skin just under Bucky’s ear. “One last dance for the night, hmm?”

Bucky wanted to melt into it, to press right up against his husband, feel the heat of him. “How are you feeling?” He tried to be subtle about it, although he probably wasn’t successful. “It’s been quite a long day. A lot was riding on this.” It was harder than he might have thought, stepping out of Tony’s embrace. Tony wasn’t ready for a great, heavy Scot in the bed, he reminded himself. Tony needed rest, needed to recover.

Tony pursued, unfastening the kilt-pin and pulling the end of Bucky’s kilt free of the jacket. “I feel good,” he insisted. “My feet are a little sore, but luckily, we have a lovely big bed right here.”

“Aye, we do,” Bucky said, and he clasped Tony’s hand with his own. “Tony-- I’m concerned you may push yourself too hard, too quick. Have you any pain?”

“No,” Tony said, pulling Bucky’s hand around his waist. “I’m _fine_ , Bucky. I’ve been fine for _weeks_. I’m not made of spun glass. I’m not so breakable as all that, love. Come to bed and love me.”

“You know I love you,” Bucky said, fervent, a promise. “Don’t ever doubt that, bonnie.” And Tony still looked so crestfallen that Bucky had to kiss him, and then, having tasted his mouth, had to do it again, and again, until Tony was clinging, his arms around Bucky’s neck, and they were both breathing harder.

“Show me,” Tony begged. “I’ve missed your touch these last weeks and months, the taste of you. I know I was hurt, but I’m not anymore. It’s nothing but a scar.”

“Ach, it hasn’t been _months_ , you’re exaggerating,” Bucky scolded, but there was that pout again, the way Tony’s bottom lip trembled, and Bucky couldn’t tell if it was an affectation, or if Tony really was that needy. He brushed his thumb over that pouting lip, marveling again at how soft it was, that tickle of mustache against Bucky’s skin.

“Well more than a month, at any rate,” Tony said. “And I’ve had the all-clear for activity for _days_.” He cocked his head, studying Bucky. “I know you want me, still. Do I really seem so frail?”

“You seem perfect, absolutely perfect,” Bucky told him, “and of _course_ I want you. I’d have to be dead not to want you, and maybe not even then.” He fiddled at the buttons on Tony’s shirt, slipping one through its loop, and then another. “Let me see this scar of yours.”   

It wasn’t small, the pink, puckered flesh trailing down the center of Tony’s chest and curving slightly to one side. Farther down, over his ribs, an almost perfectly round dot marked the place Steve had cut. The one in the center, though... Bucky couldn’t look away. An inch farther to the left, a different angle on the blade, and Tony would almost certainly have died.

“I will rip his throat out with my teeth,” Bucky swore, raising his hand to touch the scar, ever so lightly, knowing his actions were completely at odd with his racing thoughts. Rumlow wouldn’t live to see another sunset, if Bucky should ever happen across the man again. Not all the laws in the Empire would stop him.

“Barbarian,” Tony said, grinning. “I certainly won’t be bothered to stop you, though. The bastard wants killing.” He put his hand over Bucky’s and pressed it more closely to his skin. “Feel the beat of my heart, love?”

“It’s the dearest thing in the world to me,” Bucky said. “Every moment. You’ll tell me, won’t you, if it hurts, or you need to rest. Promise?”

“I promise,” Tony said, falling serious for a moment, curling his hand along Bucky’s jaw, thumb brushing at his cheek. And then his eyes crinkled mischievously again. “Shall I play the ingenue, lying upon the bed and waiting for you to ravish me?”

“You never waited a day in your life for anything you wanted,” Bucky teased. “Didn’t you all but drag yourself up here to Scotland to demand I put our wedding vows right? Don’t tell me you’ll lay there, naked, and wait for me to come to you.”

Tony put his nose in the air haughtily. “After I’d waited three _years_ for you to come to me,” he pointed out. “I can wait, when I must.”

“I should like to see that,” Bucky said. “Tony Stark, waiting patiently…” Bucky checked the pot near the fire. There was enough hot water for a bird bath, to wipe the sweat off. He eyed Tony speculatively, half dressed as he was.

He’d promised Tony a night on the bearskin rug, and they still hadn’t gotten around to that; a good wash, some drying in front of the fire, and if Tony fell asleep, then Bucky would know he was still more wounded than he’d like Bucky to believe. He stripped out of his shirt, his ghillies and his hose, then-- “Go on then, get the rest of your clothes off, as I might begin the ravishing.”  

Tony’s eyes widened, and then darkened, and a pleased smile curved his mouth. “As you command, my laird husband.” He executed an elegant bow, dropping his shirt to the floor as he straightened. Eyes on Bucky’s face, he unfastened his trousers and peeled them off, slowly, until he was standing in his trews and stockings.

He sat on the edge of the bed to untie his garters and pull off the stockings, making a production of it, teasing. When at last he stepped out of his trews, skin bronzed in the firelight, his cock stood proudly up, curving in toward his belly, and his breath was coming faster. He held out his arms, displaying himself for Bucky’s pleasure.

And Bucky took great pleasure in the sight. Almost as if he’d forgotten what Tony looked like, even though if he’d had to describe him, he could have, all the way down to the mole on his thigh that looked like a thumbprint. Bucky, quite honestly, gawked at him, eyes drawn from the smooth column of Tony’s throat, down shoulders and biceps that were deceptively powerful. The lean chest and trim waist. Perfect hips and long, gorgeous legs.

Bucky drank his fill of the sight of his husband, then, “Come here.” He pulled the slipper tub out near the fire, filled it with a bucket of cool water, and then the warmer water from the fire. Towels and washcloths were close at hand.

Tony obeyed, cocking his head at the tub. “We’re beginning with a bath? An unusual ravishment, indeed.”

“I want to take care of you,” Bucky told him. “You want me to show you how much I love you? This is part of it. I want you to be clean, and healthy, and warm, and comfortable. And naked. While I rub you down with soap and water. Which I think sounds a little more fun, yes? And then you can roll around in front of the fire on my bearskin rug.”

“That certainly sounds enjoyable,” Tony agreed. He reached for Bucky’s hand, letting Bucky steady him as he stepped into the low tub.

Bucky dipped the washcloth in, and then wrung warm water down Tony’s back and chest. Slow. He couldn’t have moved faster if he wanted to, one handed, but there seemed to be something soothing, sensual, in those long, languid movements. Wiping the cloth down Tony’s arms. Following the path of the washcloth with a few fervent kisses. Leaning Tony back against the sloping side so that Bucky could wash his chest.

Carefully over the scar, down to his hips. Tony was hard as blazes, cock proud and tall in the water, and Bucky couldn’t help but stroke, gently, using the cloth as if it was just another patch of skin to clean. But meeting Tony’s eyes, dark and wide, a hint of a smile on those lips. It wasn’t impersonal at all, but they could both pretend, for a little while. Draw it out.

Tony’s lips parted at the soft touch, the slightest quickening of breath, and he licked his lips. “You may have missed a spot,” he suggested. “Perhaps you should try that again.”

“Yeah?” Bucky dunked the cloth again, turning his hand while he did it, the heel of his hand pushing against Tony’s cock. “You think-- maybe right here?” He pressed his finger against Tony’s hole, just a tease, the barest brush. “Well, we’ll want to make sure that’s very clean, won’t we?”

Tony’s head fell back and his eyes closed as he let out a soft whine of a moan. “Yes,” he managed. “Ah, Bucky, please...” He reached up, curling his fingers in Bucky’s hair and pulling Bucky in for a kiss.

Bucky leaned into it, gently opening his mouth to Tony, tasting the tang of champagne and punch still on his mouth, feeling the soft, supple interior of his cheek, the line of his teeth, still moving his hand the whole time, as Tony rocked into it. He whined into Bucky’s mouth and Bucky swallowed those sounds as if they were ambrosia. “I got you, bonnie, don’t fret none,” Bucky told him, kissed him again, a gentle nuzzle. Circled Tony’s hole and then pulled his hand up, dragging the washcloth behind him to tease at Tony’s length. “Leg.”

Tony shuddered and all but whimpered, but he lifted his leg for Bucky’s attentions. “Cruel,” he accused, without heat. His pupils were so wide that Bucky could barely see a thin ring of brown around them, his breath coming in shallow pants.

“Thorough,” Bucky corrected, and because Tony was being a bit of a brat about it, Bucky took his sweet time, all but ignoring the fact that his own tool was pushing at his kilt, impatient and eager. Washed Tony’s thigh, pushing at the thick muscle there, and down his knee, those shapely calves to a narrow, almost delicate ankle. He pressed a kiss to Tony’s toes and watched him jolt with surprise.

“At least you washed them first,” Tony said, laughing a little. “I’ve never thought to be kissed _there_.”

Bucky out and out leered at Tony. “I’m a Scot,” he pointed out, “and we eat haggis for breakfast. You’d be surprised where I’d like to kiss you.”

Tony blinked at him. “Stranger than my toes?”

Bucky worked his way up Tony’s other leg, rinse, circle, repeat, until he was teasing between Tony’s legs. “Would you let me?” He pushed his finger against Tony’s hole again, soft, light, and then just a little tug at the muscle, coaxing him to open up, spread his thighs even wider. “Here?”

Tony’s eyes were round as dinner plates, now. “Really?” It came out as a squeak. “You-- I-- You’re teasing me,” he accused.

“Not so much as I’d like to be teasing you,” Bucky said, practically holding his breath. Surely it wasn’t such a wild suggestion; he’d seen a few of the young soldiers with their heads beneath a lady’s dress, it wasn’t that different. “You know-- I won’t make you do nothing that you don’t want, but…”

Tony swallowed. “I don’t think there’s much I would say no to, for you,” he admitted. “I’m just... That surely never crossed my mind.”

“I used to think about you,” Bucky confessed. “All the time. Too much, maybe. Everything I could think of, half the time with my hand up my kilt, wishin’ you were here with me. Here, hop up--” He held out his hand to steady Tony as he stepped out of the tub. “You can just lay on the rug, bear fur is really absorbent, an’ I’ll have a quick wash and join you?”

“Yes, all right.” Tony knelt on the rug, then stretched out, letting the fire bake his skin. He rolled to his side and propped his head on his hand to watch Bucky. “Don’t take too long.”

“Well, maybe a little long,” Bucky joked, and tugged the apron straps free of their buckles, dropping his kilt to the floor without much in the way of subtlety.

He mostly just stood in the slipper and washed himself off, quick and efficient. Even now, that much felt like a luxury. The first night, when he and Steve and the rest had made it home, Bucky’d climbed into the bath, clothes and all, and just relished the feeling. Clean hair. Clean skin. He’d burned the rags of his prison clothes.

Being clean was a luxury that he hoped never to take for granted again.

Tony watched from the rug, resting his chin on his hands, his legs up and crossed at the ankle behind him, and he looked perfect, golden, delicious.

***

The slow, intimate bathing and the heat of the fire, after the long evening, might have lulled Tony to sleep, if Bucky’s suggestion hadn’t set his mind racing. He was still about half-convinced it was a joke, except that Bucky had never mocked Tony’s lack of experience before.

He watched Bucky bathing -- really more of a rinse than a bath -- and enjoyed the play of the flickering firelight against Bucky’s skin, the slide and bunch of muscle, the hungry looks cast in Tony’s direction. “You really are beautiful,” he said, without really thinking about it.

“For th’ way you look at me, I’ll be anything you want,” Bucky said. He bent and wet the cloth again, washing briskly between his legs, before finally stepping out. He moved over to the bed and got the cap end. “Help me with this, if you’d be so kind, and then I’ll help you.”

A quick twist and the false, wooden arm was laid gently aside. They both looked-- sometimes after a long day of wearing the arm, Bucky’s shoulder would bruise, and Bucky was terrified of infection. Not that Tony could blame him, all things considered. So they went through the routine, and assured them both that everything was in working order.

“There you are, my bonnie lad,” Bucky told him. “What do you think of this big fellow?” He ran his hand over the bear’s soft fur, much woolier and less coarse than Tony would have thought. “He was, ach, at least two foot taller than me, when angered.”

Tony stroked the fur carefully. “Were you afraid?”

“Oh, aye, laddie,” Bucky said. “Although it’s sometimes hard to tell from wildness. It’s very exciting, fighting a bear. Fighting anything, really. Fear’s… just part of it. But I don’t think I ever knew real fear. Not until I almost lost you.” He settled onto the rug next to Tony and brushed his thumb over Tony’s lip, obsessed with Tony’s bottom lip, the way he always seemed to be.

Tony caught Bucky’s hand and pressed a kiss to his thumb, his palm. “I love you.”

“You are my whole world, right here,” Bucky said. And he leaned in to kiss Tony, cheeks and the tip of his nose, and each closed eyelid, the spot right in the middle of his eyebrows, before working his way back down to Tony’s mouth.

Tony opened to Bucky’s kiss and his skin seemed to prickle all over with the heat of wanting. He wrapped his arms around Bucky, splayed his hands across Bucky’s back. This moment, he’d imagined a thousand different ways, but the reality was so much sweeter than any dream he’d ever entertained. “I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m yours, always.”

Bucky nuzzled Tony’ mouth again, then moved slowly downward, stopping to explore his collarbones, a row of soft bites across his shoulder, and one less than soft at the join of his neck, just until he was breathing hard and pressing up into it. Down, and Bucky tasted his chest, licking one flat nipple to see what sort of reaction he got, then blowing cool air over it, making his skin ripple with gooseflesh.

Tony groaned at the sensation, arching up into it, savoring the way it seemed to pull all his skin tight and light a fire under it, a gunpowder sizzle of sparks that only made him want more, more, _more_. He laid back against the soft fur, tipping his head back to invite Bucky in, and spread his arms wide, letting himself luxuriate in it.

Bucky kept moving down, slow and steady, oddly graceful, even as lopsided as he was, kissing and stroking every part of Tony he could reach. Was oddly delighted when he discovered that the inside of Tony’s elbow was very sensitive, enough that Bucky’s tongue playing over it made him squirm and wriggle. “All I ever--” he said, “ _ever_ wanted was you.” Down lower again, and licked the groove of Tony’s hip, following the line around the bottom of his belly.

Tony whined and writhed, and Bucky stubbornly avoided going where Tony wanted. “You’ve got me,” Tony promised, a touch breathlessly. “Though if you keep doing that, you’ll drive me mad and then you’ll have to lock me in the tower.”

“And what would I be doin’ with you locked away?” Bucky wondered, breath ghosting over Tony’s skin. “Where I couldn’t kiss you, nor touch you, nor love you at all?” He flicked his tongue over Tony’s shaft, the barest hint of heat and wet.

“O-oh, yes, please--” Tony tried to arch into it. “Bucky!” He curled his fingers into the fur. Everything was soft and warm and sweet pleasure, and Tony wanted to drown in it.

Bucky made a soft agreeable kind of noise, and then practically swallowed Tony’s cock, sliding his lips over the head, and working his way down it, until Tony was encased in that slick heat, then started working his way back up, tongue pushing against Tony’s skin, lips keeping a tight seal.

Tony was caught between wanting to writhe in pleasure and freezing so Bucky would _never stop_ ; it was so intense that he couldn’t bear to stay still, so perfect that he couldn’t move. “Oh, _Christ_ ,” he swore, lifting one hand to Bucky’s shoulder and hanging on for all he was worth.

Bucky kept doing it, down and up, twisting his head from side to side, then nuzzled at the inside of Tony’s thighs, dropping tiny kisses along his skin until Tony’s legs were wide spread, wanton and needy. He kissed and licked at Tony’s balls, soft and gentle, tugging each one into his mouth. “Lift your heels up over my shoulders, laddie,” Bucky told him. The position left Tony feeling vulnerable, exposed, but in the best way. This was the part of himself he could share with Bucky, and only with Bucky.

He curled up, just a little, needing to see Bucky’s face, those beautiful eyes soft with love and dark with lust, skin flushed with desire. Bucky was everything, the very center of Tony’s world, and he shuddered to even contemplate a life in which they were not side by side. Bucky glanced up at him, sweet and hot and knowing, and Tony knew he’d give Bucky anything. Everything.

Bucky wrapped his arm around Tony’s thigh, pushing it up, and back, the flat end of his cap bracing himself against the floor. He kissed each of Tony’s thighs, like he was marking his territory, and then nipped the curve of Tony’s ass, just to the inside, sucking up a little red mark that would be tender later, but right that second burned intensely. His cheeks and chin were rough with stubble and they scratched against Tony’s leg.

And his tongue flicked across Tony’s hole, just the faintest tease.

Tony’s breath stuttered and stuck in his throat, and he swallowed hard lest it emerge as a scream. Bucky had touched him there, of course, and it felt good, better than good, somehow arousing and soothing all at once. This should have felt similar -- but it didn’t.

Something about the heat of Bucky’s breath, the scratch of his beard, the pliant wet of his tongue, perhaps?

Tony didn’t know. Didn’t _care_. All he could think was _again_ and _more_ and _please_.

What started out as odd and a little embarrassing turned into a teasing flame of want, every slide and push of Bucky’s tongue making it hard for Tony to think, much less _talk_. Words were a thing, and he assumed eventually they’d come back to him, but-- he wanted to melt into a puddle, wanted to collapse. Wanted to lift his hips for a better angle.

Bucky nuzzled, rubbed over Tony’s hole with his finger, following it with more licks. He made a greedy, wanton, utterly obscene noise that made Tony weak, just hearing it. Tony was hard and aching, and so, so desperate. He breached Tony with his finger, probing against the tight muscle, testing it, and following each tug with another lick, tempting in its very gentleness and at the same time carnally brutal.

Tony wailed, every breath forcing its way out of his lungs in a harsh sob. He wanted, he _needed_. He was babbling, pleading and begging, not even sure what it was he wanted except that he wanted it _desperately_. “Bucky, oh God, oh please, please, I need, you’re so-- _Oh_ bloody... _Please_ , Bucky, God...”

Tony wasn't certain how much time had passed in a fever of need. He moaned and wriggled and strained. Every time he thought he couldn't take any more pleasure without shattering, Bucky somehow brought him more.

He leaned back, sitting up. Almost sheepish, he wiped his chin. “Ach, laddie, hold there a wee bit.” And before Tony had time to miss him, Bucky was back with a glass phial.

“How do you feel?”

Tony was panting for breath, burning up from the outside in, harder than he’d ever been in his life. He blinked dazedly at Bucky for a moment, trying to remember how to string syllables together. “Good.” No, not enough. “ _Amazing_. You’re... you’re a miracle.”

“Ye’re sweet,” Bucky told him. “An’ you look absolutely _destroyed_ , bonnie. I like it.” Bucky tipped something out of the phial, shiny liquid that smelled faintly of herbs. “You’ve only to say, if you don’t wish it, but should you-- would you let me try an’--” Bucky stammered to a halt, neck and cheeks going pink.

Tony didn’t think he’d ever get enough of seeing Bucky blush -- it was the contrast, this large, strapping warrior who’d faced down angry bears, reduced to stuttering and flushing over _Tony_. “Anything,” Tony promised. “Whatever you wish, love. I’m all yours.”

“Ach, then, you remember t’ breathe and I’ll see to getting you ready to take me.” Bucky pressed those two fingers, shiny and wet, against Tony’s already sensitive hole, circling, and then pressing inside to touch him. “You’ll tell me, aye, if it hurts, or I should stop.”

“Of course,” Tony said. He couldn’t imagine wanting to stop; the slow slide of Bucky’s fingers inside him was delicious, a sweet ache like rubbing down tired muscles. He let his eyes fall closed for a moment, soaking in every bit of sensation -- the soft fur and the heat of the fire and Bucky’s touch. “Feels good.”

Bucky slid his fingers in and out, tugging light at Tony’s opening. It had been a brilliant heat, and then just as sudden, he was empty. “Don’t fret none,” Bucky told him, shifting around until he was kneeling between Tony’s thighs. “I got you, love. Hold your legs open for me, I haven’t so much leverage as I might care for.”

He balanced precariously for a moment, and then something quite a bit larger, harder, than Bucky’s fingers nudged at Tony’s entrance, slipping in the oiled surface, rubbing against him.

Tony felt his eyes stretch wide as he understood what Bucky meant to do. The ache intensified into an almost unbearable pressure. “Breathe,” Bucky reminded him, and Tony realized he’d been holding his breath, keeping his whole body tense and tight. He made himself blow it out and then draw another, and again, and by increments he relaxed, until the pressure faded into a sense of fullness that was not at all unpleasant.

“Oh...” He looked up at Bucky, balanced over him. “I like that.”

“That’s good t’ hear,” Bucky said, and the expression on his face, like he was trapped between the greatest pleasure and the most desperate pain, was at once tender and fierce, possessive and sweet all at once. “Ach, it’s quite lovely on this side of things, as well.” He shifted his hips a little and he moved impossibly close, like they were two beings becoming one.

Tony let out a breathless little laugh of surprise. His hands were busy holding back his legs, but lifting his head let him nuzzle along the underside of Bucky’s jaw, nip at Bucky’s ear. “Hello, husband.”

Bucky made a keening, aching groan at that, and he jolted as he bottomed out, fully sheathed in Tony’s body. “Nae t’ much for you, my bonnie?” He closed his eyes for a moment, as if staying still and letting Tony adjust was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

“It’s... a lot,” Tony admitted truthfully, because all logic aside, it felt like Bucky was pressing on his lungs from the inside, shortening his breath. “But it doesn’t hurt.” It felt... _right_.

Bucky tipped his head, practically resting his forehead on Tony’s chest, and then began to move, slow, rocking himself in and out of Tony’s body. Pulling almost all the way back, and then slowly sliding back in, a motion that Tony’s hips mimicked almost unconsciously, rising up to meet him as they moved together in a dance as old as time.

It was right, and then more than right, sublime and sweet and perfect and profound. Tony’s cock seemed to strain with each thrust, trying to match Bucky’s rhythm, trying to reach completion. It wasn’t long before Tony’s breath was coming in gulps, sweat dampening his hair. He wrapped one leg all the way over Bucky’s hip, resting his heel in the small of Bucky’s back, and reached between them to grab at his cock, desperate for relief.

“There you are, my love,” Bucky told him between gasping breaths. “So beautiful, look at you, dear God in heavens, you’re sweet.” Bucky moved faster, driving Tony, driving them both. The fur was soft under Tony’s back, and Bucky’s hand was gripping Tony’s hip so hard that Tony was sure he’d have bruises, but it didn’t matter, because everything was sublime, and all he could feel was the growing need.

Tony’s climax took him by surprise, a sudden bloom of forge-hot heat in his balls and a spill of wetness over his hand. His whole body squeezed tight with each pulse, and Bucky groaned as Tony clenched around him. “Oh God, _Bucky_ ,” Tony gasped. “I love you.”

Bucky rocked him a few more times, his face tucked in the safe hollow of Tony’s throat, before he cried out, stiff and shuddering and spilled himself into Tony. He didn’t quite collapse on top of Tony, but covered him like a blanket and rested his head on Tony’s chest. “Ach, my love, my sweet, you’re so good t’ me.”

Tony slipped his fingers into Bucky’s hair, teasing out a sweat-damp tangle. “And here I thought it was the other way around.” He yawned and trailed a line down Bucky’s back, tracing idle spirals.

Bucky pulled himself back and out, and a gush of warm wetness spilled over Tony’s thigh, which was vaguely uncomfortable, but everything else was cozy and Tony was feeling exceptionally languid and not much like moving about. “I didn’t know--” Bucky confessed. “I wasn’t sure I could… you know, love you proper. Missin’ my arm an’ all. I didn’t know it would feel like that.”

Tony opened one eye to look at his husband. “You’ve been loving me properly for months,” he said decisively. “This is lovely, don’t mistake me, but I’d never have felt the lack if you hadn’t been able.” He considered it. “Might be easier, next time, if I sat on top of you,” he mused.

“Now there’s a bonnie idea,” Bucky said. “But no’ tonight. _Later_.” Bucky groaned a bit, but pushed himself up to go back to the bath. “Let me clean y’ up a bit, an’ we can get some sleep.”

“Sleep--” Tony cut himself off with another yawn. “Sounds divine. As does _later_.”

“And now, at least, we’ve sealed th’ deal,” Bucky said, almost as an afterthought. “Deed’s been done, and you can’t annul the marriage.”

Tony huffed. “As if I would. Ridiculous man.”


	19. Chapter 19

The wall bristled with the smaller catapults. They couldn't handle huge rocks, but scattershot was more efficient anyway, unless Hydra was bringing in siege towers. And if they were, chances were good Tony would know about it within hours; there were a number of signal fires and scouts keeping an eye on the woods.

“ _Catapultam habeo. Nisi pecuniam omnem mihi dabis, ad caput tuum saxum immane mittam_ ,” Becca said, coming up behind him and putting her hand on the catapult’s main strut with the fondness of someone who has just discovered the power of _leverage_.

Tony laughed. “If I weren’t married, I’d make you an offer,” he teased. “How are the traps going?” He’d devised a series of hidden traps to be placed outside the castle walls. They wouldn’t do a great deal of damage, but they might make Hydra slow down and advance more cautiously.

“At least half the troops got an effective demonstration yesterday -- someone woke up a very angry raccoon and ended up flinging the trap at it in a panic. There was a decided lack of complaining about your _useless waste of time_ after that.”

“Yes, even an Englishman might have a good idea once in a blue moon,” Tony said wryly.

“Scots are very, very traditional,” Becca said. “This kind of warfare is making everyone nervous. We’re used to running out in the field and hacking at each other with claymores, which should, honestly, make us more nervous.”

“I’m sure once Hydra gets closer, they’ll get their chance to paint themselves and hack all they like,” Tony said. “We can’t let them siege the castle. I don’t think we’ve got the resources to wait them out.”

“There wasn’t enough time, nor space. Nor interior plumbing. And that spreads disease,” Becca said. She shook her head. “All these years, studying under Bucky, learning everything I could about the lairdship of the castle. And all I’ve got from it is more things to worry about.”

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown,” Tony said philosophically, though he had more than enough to worry him, too. “Or the Captain’s badge,” he amended. “Still no word from the scouts?”

“Not yet,” she said. “I’m hoping things are just boring. Resting in their various safe spots, not seeing any Hydra. Of course, at the same time, I wish they’d get on--”

Becca broke off suddenly, staring. “Tony--” She pointed. “Confirm, please.”

For a long moment, trying to squint over the miles, it could have been anything. A farmer burning a stump out of his fields, a flock of birds. Anything--

Except it wasn’t. And he knew it wasn’t.

Red smoke.

“They’re on the approach,” Tony said grimly. “Send the signals. Get the crews up here to load the catapults. I’m going to find Bucky.” He spared a brief second to squeeze Becca’s arm, then raced for the stairs that led down from the top of the wall.

***

“Look, Tones, it’s the only way,” Rhodes said. He hadn’t quite hopped on his horse and ridden away. “It’s in the charter for English law. We have to give them a chance to present demands or surrender. It’s the _law_.”

“We can do that from the top of the wall,” Tony said desperately. “You don’t have to _go out there_.” He looked more than a little pale, and was clinging to Rhodes’ sleeve so tightly his knuckles were white. “They’re not men of honor, Rhodey. The law means nothing to them. They’ll laugh in your face and then shoot you in the back with the guns they’re not supposed to have.”

“Tony,” Bucky said, trying to aim for gentle, but he was pretty sure he was off the mark. “We have archers in place, if there’s treachery.”

“They’re not men of honor,” Rhodes agreed. “But we are, and we must act like it, or truly, we will become our enemy.” He loosened Tony’s hold on his sleeve. “You take care of this man, do you understand that?” That was a pointed look at Bucky, who nodded.

“With my life,” Bucky promised. Tony wasn’t wrong to be worried; that had the sound and flavor of a death’s bed vow. He drew Tony into an embrace, who fought him.

“Damn it, let go, he can’t--”

Rhodes mounted up.

“Lower the bridge,” Bucky gave the order.

“Rhodey! Listen to me!” Tony struggled against Bucky’s hold again, then sagged, shaking. “They’re going to kill him,” he whispered desperately. “You can’t let him do this!”

“It’ll be all right,” Bucky lied, and he knew that he was lying. But it was possible, however unlikely, that Hydra would not want to start a war with England, and killing his Majesty’s troops in an ungentlemanly manner would practically guarantee that Scotland would be crawling with redcoats in mere weeks. They might back down. They might decide that it wasn’t worth the trouble and go home again.

Bucky tightened his grip on Tony. Or they would decide to slaughter the emissary group, and then there would be true hell to pay, and the highlanders would pay it. “Damn them for making us do it, Tony, but _we have to_.”

“Leave the bridge down,” Bucky said. “As a show of good faith.” And to not have to open it again if Rhodes had to run for it.

Rhodes rode out, back straight and head held high. Tony made a soft whining noise in the back of his throat. Bucky wasn’t sure he even knew he was doing it.

“Come on, bonnie,” Bucky said. “Let’s go up to the wall, we can see better from up there. I have the best archers in the clan on the tower. Rhodes knows to stay in range. If there’s treachery, Hydra will shed blood, too.”

“That’s not much comfort,” Tony said, but he let Bucky steer him up onto the wall. He leaned against the parapet, his hands clutching at the stone.

“I know, my love,” Bucky said. He leaned against the wall, eyes straining at the distant figures. Hydra was sending their own party to meet, half a dozen men. That was… encouraging? “Clint, you got this?”

“I can have four arrows in the air before they have time to draw their swords,” the man said. “And Katie-Kate can do twice that many. We’ll make ‘em rue the day. Hi, we haven’t met yet, Englishman. I’m called the Hawkeye.”

“He retired,” the girl next to him said. “I’m the Hawkeye now.”

Tony put on a smile that was only a little strained. “I’d offer to shake hands, but I’d rather you both kept yours on your bows for now,” he said. “Remind me later; I’ll buy a round.”

“We could just shoot them,” Clint offered. “No one would know. Rhodes might talk good, but he likes breathing as much as any man. He’d back us up, after the battle’s over.”

Tony’s eyes were fixed on his friend, but he shook his head. “Don’t think he would, actually,” he admitted. “You shoot a soldier who’s come to parley and he’ll have you run up for treason.”

Rhodes stopped and appeared almost bored as he waited for Hydra’s men to approach. They were ratty, with no uniforms. They carried a green banner with a monstrous skull depicted on it, with tentacles instead of arms.

Bucky found himself rubbing at the join of his artificial arm. He’d seen that badge so many times. He exhaled slowly. “Here we go.”

“Come on,” Tony muttered tightly. “They’re not going to give and neither are we, so just... cut it off and come back in, flowerpot.”

At least Rhodes was staying on his damn horse. The two groups spoke, back and forth. Not loud enough for them to hear anything up on the wall. At Bucky’s side, Tony was practically vibrating.

One of Rhodes’ men twitched their hand toward their rifle. It was far too close range to make the rifle a good weapon. And only officers carried pistols. “Hawkeye--”

“Takin’ a nap, boss,” Clint said, not looking remotely sleepy, his bow up, the arrow not quite nocked, but dangling negligently from his fingertips.

Kate’s was nocked but not drawn, and she had two more arrows held loosely in her bow hand, ready to snap to the string. “Just let ‘em make a move,” she vowed.

Tony leaned against Bucky, seeking comfort. “Please...”

Time stretched out impossibly. Words were exchanged again. The Hydra speaker pointed to the castle, then at the ground in front of his feet. Rhodes shook his head.

The emissary said something else, and then he and his men took a few steps backward,

Rhodes did the same, the horses moving uneasily in an awkward shuffle, putting space between them.

“Cover their withdrawal,” Bucky said.

Rhodes and his men were halfway back to the castle before the ambush-- gunfire from-- Bucky scanned the surrounding countryside, trying to find the shooters. “Clint!”

Bowstrings hummed and arrows flew, a dark blur against the sky. Someone’s horse screamed, stumbled. The redcoat tumbled to the ground and Rhodes stopped to aid the wounded man.

Tony was leaning over the parapet, trying to see. He was going to tumble right off if he wasn’t careful. Bucky grabbed the back of his shirt. Tony didn’t seem to notice. “Get back in here!” he yelled at Rhodes. “Bring him--!”

“Hawkeye, where’s that shooter?”

“Busy planning his funeral, boss,” Clint said, and another twang of bowstrings. Most of the Hydra emissary group were dead or dying, the horses running and adding to the chaos.

Rhodes grabbed one of the Hydra mounts, helped his man get up. Kept hold of his own horse, but didn’t mount, limping back toward the gate, keeping the mare between him and incoming fire.

“Ready the gate!”

Rhodes wasn’t even finished crossing when the gate went up, sliding him and his horses into the courtyard.

Tony slipped free of Bucky’s hold and scrambled for the yard. “Rhodey!” His voice rose. “Medic!” He skidded to a halt in front of Rhodes. “You are the most infuriating person I have the misfortune to be friends with,” he scolded, even as he helped the injured man down. “I _told_ you!”

“We cannot act like barbarians, just because others chose to do that,” Rhodes said. “They offered terms. You, and the Buchanan, and they’ll spare the castle.”

Tony growled. “It’s the same deal they offered Rumlow. I’m disinclined to acquiesce to their request.”

“Means no,” Bucky translated.

“I know what he meant. Been listening to Tones for more years than you’ve had egg breakfasts.” Rhodes took a step and almost collapsed into Tony’s arms. “Uh. Might have a broken leg there.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got a temporary set up in the back of the courtyard, take him there first, for triage, we’ll move the wounded into the castle as feasible. This should be exciting,” Steve said. He had two burly guys behind him with little two-wheeled carts to carry patients in.

Tony helped Rhodes into one of the carts, scolding him the whole time. Rhodes accepted it calmly, neither making excuses nor trying to tell Tony to calm down. He did shoot Bucky a faintly amused glance over Tony’s head, though.

Bucky just nodded to acknowledge it. If they lived through this, Rhodes would get a more personal thank you, later. “Get ready,” he yelled to the nearest soldier, listening to the order pass up the line.

***

The Hydra weren’t really trying to besiege the castle, but they had someone out there who knew a little of the craft. The men battering at the outer castle gate were protected from the Buchanan arrows and other weapons by a wood and heavy leather cover.

Tony crouched in the inner portcullis tower, working frantically at its mechanism. They were in a race against time. “Someone get this damned thing unstuck!” he bellowed. In full view of whatever scouts Hydra had stationed up the slope a ways, they’d dropped the portcullis -- and it had stopped, frozen, only a third of the way down.

The main Hydra army was outside their range, just watching as the gate was battered. The ram groaned, swung again. The whole castle seemed to shudder.

The gate shook and groaned, and practically exploded into splinters, letting the gate stormers rush the castle, leaving their battering ram behind.

“ _Now!_ ” Tony yelled, and he pulled the pin that had been wedging the portcullis in its “stuck” position. On the opposite side of the heavy grate, the gatekeeper did the same. The portcullis didn’t so much _lower_ as _slam_ to the ground, trapping most of the gatestormers between the gate and the inner wall.

“Archers, get ready to pick ‘em off!” Becca cried, and signaled the guards stationed over the gate. Massive cauldrons of sticky pitch were dumped onto the battering ram’s cover.

“Light it up!” Burning arrows stuck in the frame, ignited the pitch.

The gate corridor turned into a slaughterhouse. Wedged between the killing walls on their side of the gatehouse and the blazing wreckage of their battering ram.

People were screaming. A few Hydra got lucky shots off, killing or wounding men inside the murderholes. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, sweet and somehow vile.

“Tony, Tony, come on, don’t--” Bucky was there, suddenly, pulling Tony away from the realities of war. “Don’t look, bonnie.”

It was too late for that, far too late, but Tony let Bucky pull him away. “You can’t protect me from every little thing,” Tony said. “I’m in this, too.”

“Aye, laddie, I know you are,” Bucky said, but he didn’t let go of Tony. “But I’m na’ gonna lose you in a gate skirmish. They want you, let’s not make it easy for them to get you.”

One of the soldiers ran down to deliver the report that the main Hydra army was moving toward the castle. Two catapults were loaded and ready, another one had a winch failure, and Rumlow had been spotted.

“Winch failure, that’s my job,” Tony said. He caught Bucky’s face in his hands and reached up to kiss his husband soundly. “Stay safe,” he commanded. “And give them hell.”

“I am not going to give them hell, but they will earn every single fiery cinder of it,” Bucky said. He grabbed a passing soldier. “Stay with my husband, do not let anything happen to him.”

Tony didn’t argue; if he was going to be fixing the catapults, someone would need to stand guard while his attention was occupied. “I’ll see you soon, love.” He beckoned his escort to follow and marched grimly back toward the wall and the catapults.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation: _Catapultam habeo. Nisi pecuniam omnem mihi dabis, ad caput tuum saxum immane mittam._ \- I have a catapult. Give me all the money, or I will throw a large rock at your head.


	20. Chapter 20

By the end of the first day, Bucky was filthy and exhausted. Both of his shoulders ached; one from carrying the artificial arm, the other from swinging a damn claymore one handed. The east wall had proven a vulnerable point, being somewhat lower than the rest, given the way the castle was set into the hillside, and four times scalers had gained the top of the wall and been repelled.

The general of the opposing forces -- and Bucky still hadn’t figured out who was leading them -- appeared to be in a hurry. Instead of settling in for a siege, they were battering at the walls as if the fiends of hell were behind them.

It was costing them lives, but maybe Hydra didn’t put too much store on those.

Not like Bucky; most of the fallen guards were wounded, not dead, but there were a few canvas wrapped corpses in the courtyard. Something was going to have to be done about the bodies if this kept up for any length of time.

Fresh troops filtered up to watch the wall, in case Hydra was foolish -- or desperate -- enough to try a night attack. It was unlikely; they could hear curses outside the wall as Hydra’s troops tried to pitch tents in the darkness. It seemed they’d expected to be inside on the very first night.

Either they’d underestimated the clan, or overestimated themselves.

In either case, Bucky wanted the walls manned ‘round the clock.

Tony was still overseeing repairs on the catapults; a lucky shooter had managed to hit one strut as it was about to fire, and the resulting mess had torn itself to pieces, as well as wounding the crew.

Tony would want Bucky to check on the wounded, especially the firing crew. He knew all those men personally. Honestly, all Bucky wanted was to grab a bowl of something warm to eat, try to unkink his fingers, and maybe clean the blood off his arms and face. But duty first, and then he could collapse. For a few hours.

Steve’s little medical tent, pitched on the far end of the courtyard in the most protected part of the castle, seemed halfway across the world, but Bucky managed to get there. Finally.

Clint pushed past Bucky on his way out of the tent, dotted with plasters on his nose and cheek, one wrist wrapped in tight bandages, and two fingers that appeared to have been broken.

“Hawkeye,” Bucky greeted him. “What happened?”

“Fell off the wall, shut up. I made the shot,” Clint said. “Got that shooter who took out the catapults.”

“Good man,” Bucky told him, giving a nod. He flipped the tent flap open, looking around for Steve.

It didn’t take long to find him; for a man as slight of stature as Steve was, he was a commanding presence in the tent, bellowing orders at his helpers even as he knelt by a bloodstained pallet, his kit at his side, hands moving swift and sure over the injured man’s limbs.

“Nae, the woundwort tincture!” he called. “Th’ green bottle. _Green_ , damn your hide! And fresh bandages! Be quick! And I’ll need a couple o’ volunteers, here!”

“Whatcha need, Stevie?” Bucky wondered, moving forward. The man on the cot was writhing in pain, achingly aware of what was going on, eyes wide enough to show the whites all around.

There was a lot of blood, but Bucky assumed it wasn’t all from the one man. His gaze took in the terrified face, the gritted teeth. Someone offered the man a strip of leather to bite on.

And Steve had what looked alarmingly like a _saw_ in one hand.

“Someone t’hold ‘im,” Steve said. He held a bottle in the other hand; pulled the cork with his teeth and splashed it over the man’s arm. The strip of cloth over the man’s elbow, Bucky realized belatedly, weren’t bandages; they were a _tourniquet_. “Got to come off, ‘fore the rot sets in.” He laid his free hand on the man’s chest. “I’ll be quick as I may, an’ then we’ll give ye another big dose of whiskey an’ laudanum, aye?”

Somewhere in the back of Bucky’s head was the sound of water over rocks--

. _..and Steve crying that he didn’t have the tools for it. There was a stone beneath his hip that was throwing his balance all off…_

… _the sound of insects in the trees…_

… _quiet now, Buck, there’s Hydra in these woods…_

The smell of blood, thick and rich and somehow _meaty_ in a way that turned his stomach.

The earth rocked dangerously under Bucky’s feet and he swayed. The man’s arm was shattered. Steve moved and Bucky could see the bones stabbing around through the skin, thick with clotting blood and the flesh torn.

Someone’s bones shouldn’t be exposed that way.

Bucky reached out to find something to steady himself with, but there was nothing.

“Whoa!” Steve was on his feet in an instant, catching Bucky by the shoulder. “Steady, Buck. All right? You with me?”

“Til the end of the line,” Bucky answered, as sure as he’d been every day of his life. That was one thing that he’d always been able to count on. Steve, solid as a rock. He coughed once and the world snapped back into focus with a suddenness that was almost as dizzying. “I-- can’t. Sorry--”

He staggered backward, away from the healer’s tent, hoping to find a safe place.

“You-- You there, go with ‘im,” Steve’s voice followed him out. “See he eats something and washes his face before he makes his Englishman faint away of fright.”

“Come now, your lordship,” chirped a young man, far too energetic after such a draining day. He tucked himself neatly under Bucky’s good arm and steered them around and out of the tent.

“Tony’s not gonna faint,” Bucky said with more confidence than he actually felt. His legs felt weak and watery, like someone had replaced his bones with calf’s foot jelly or one of those terrible puddings the English preferred. “Go an’ fetch him off the wall, would you? He should eat somethin’, too.”

Bucky knew there was a wash-up station just off the great hall, and he moved that way, not wanting to smell blood anymore. It felt fresher, if sticky and cold, than if he’d just been sprayed with it.

His helper insisted on accompanying him to the station before going in search of Tony, but the lad must have run, or else found Tony already very close by; they were back just as Bucky finished splashing his face, before he’d even finished drying it.

“You’re all right,” Tony said, and it wasn’t... _quite_ a question.

“We’ve got less than a dozen dead, maybe twice that wounded,” Bucky said, like he was giving a report to his old captain, not really seeing Tony. Hearing the gurgle of the creek again, like he was right back there, and how could he even start to tell Tony about that? His men had almost lost faith in him before, thinking he was mad as a March hare. “The… crewman who was on your machine--” Bucky’s voice dropped down to nothing and he didn’t know how to find it again.

Tony’s arm was around him, drawing him toward a bench, urging him to sit. “Is it very bad?”

“Could be fair worse,” Bucky said, staring at the flagstones under his feet. “Steve’s got proper tools and medicines.” He flexed his hand, trying to remember what his left hand had _felt_ like, how it had been easier to hold a pen. He’d used to fidget in church sometimes, counting the priest’s words by pressing his fingers together. The way he used to cross his arms over his chest when he was exasperated. “He’s gonna lose the arm.”

_Lose._ What a stupid word; they knew exactly where the arm was. More than Bucky’s, rotten and forgotten alongside some creek, who knew how many years and miles away.

Tony made a soft sound, impossible to decipher. “I’ll go and see him when I can,” he said. “Are you all right, love?”

“Ach, all my wounds are long since healed,” Bucky said. “A long shooter took out the catapult. He won’t do it again, the Hawkeye brought him down.” He was fine, he was fine. Nothing was wrong with him anymore. Water poured over stones, uncaring. _Quiet now, Buck. There are Hydra in these woods._

A hand on the side of his face took him by surprise, and he looked up to see Tony’s eyes, wide and dark in the lamp-lit hall. “You’re pale,” Tony said softly. “It’s only me, here. You don’t have to put on a show for anyone.”

“You stayed with me, the whole time I was in that hellpit,” Bucky said. “Ghost of you…. Sometimes… sometimes I think part of me… stayed there.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” Tony said, solemn. “But the best part of you is here, now, with me. And I’ll stay as long as you want me.”

Bucky shuddered and pulled Tony in close, tucking his face in that safe hollow against Tony’s throat. “Always.” And he let himself mourn, the dead, the wounded. Himself. It wasn’t unmanly to grieve for the dead, wasn’t insane to pity the injured. And if there was some part of his soul that screamed about how unfairly he’d been treated, well, it would get lost in the general cacophony. And he did have his Tony.

For today, at least.

Tony’s arms wrapped around him, holding him tight, Tony’s voice murmuring comfort and nonsense that washed over him like a balm. And if Tony’s own voice was rough with grief, that was all right, too.

***

Four days, they’d been at it. Tony was beginning to wonder if Hydra was magically summoning more men to fight for them. Twenty Hydra fell, it seemed, for every one of the Buchanan, but the forces outside the castle walls scarcely seemed any smaller. Tony, Bucky, and Becca had been sleeping in shifts -- or resting, at any rate; it was hard to sleep when Hydra might launch another wave at any time. Steve barely seemed to sleep at all, running on hate and black coffee every time Tony had seen him.

Bucky had to be nearly ordered to his bed each evening, apparently determined to wreak _personal_ vengeance on each and every Hydra rebel. Tony had been nearly as stubborn, the first two days, not wanting to give any of the clan an excuse to say he’d been a liability, but when he’d nearly toppled off the wall from exhaustion, he’d given way to better sense. Even when there was no active fighting, there was too much to do; he’d serve no one if he fell over from exhaustion.

At least tonight’s shifts had overlapped a little, and he and Bucky had stolen a few moments of privacy to hold each other and whisper endearments and promises. Even if they were both too tired for lovemaking, it had been rejuvenating just to be together for a while. They had precious little time for tenderness, under attack.

Tony rather suspected he was blushing a bit, still, as he mounted the walls, and was glad for the cover of nightfall.

He found the Hawkeye leaning on the wall, watching the shadows intently. “It’s a bush,” Tony said, smiling tiredly. “There are a thousand more of them out there.”

“It’s _cover_ ,” Clint retorted, “and there’s a thousand more of them out there.”

“They have yet to make a single move past sundown,” Tony pointed out. “You’d think if they were going to try that, they’d have done it while their troops were still fresh. Anyway, would you really be able to spot them? It’s like pitch out there.”

“You’d think a lot of things,” Clint said, “but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Hydra? You’re usually wrong. Whatever it is.”

“You’ve a point,” Tony admitted. He clapped Clint on the arm and moved off down the wall, stopping to inspect the catapults for signs of wear and tear, taking note of which ammunition stockpiles would need to be refreshed before morning.

Tony was just about finished his rounds, and wondering if he might sneak off to bed and take some comfort in the warm sleepiness of his husband -- or urge him back to bed if Bucky was staring moodily into the fire again -- when a raucous sound came from over the wall.

Moments later, the alarm bells were ringing and men hurried to the wall as--

Apparently some of the Hydra soldiers, bored, restless, and into the ale barrels, had launched a pitiful attack on the gate.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Tony complained. “You’d think they would be tired, too.” He jogged toward the disturbance, but was halted by one of the redcoats.

“Stay back here,” the man said with a ruefully apologetic air. “The Colonel and the Duke are in agreement; you’re not to risk yourself, should Hydra launch a night attack.”

Tony sputtered, but every second he spent arguing was a second the soldier was detained from helping throw Hydra off. “Fine,” he grumbled. “But I’ll be having words with my husband and the Colonel about this as soon as I see them!”

Muffled cheers and shouting were accompanied by several loud bangs -- for a moment, Tony almost rushed forward anyway, thinking Hydra had gotten its hands on actual _explosives_ , but instead they let off a series of colorful, but badly made, fireworks. They crackled in the air, making shadows into monsters, but ultimately were harmless.

Tony froze, staring at the afterimages imprinted on his eyes and breathing in the faint scent of gunpowder.

Bullets, Hydra could make in plenty; lead’s melting point was low enough for a makeshift smithy, as long as they had molds, but there was a tight limit to the stores of gunpowder. Even Rhodey’s redcoats had been taking pains to preserve their supply. Why would Hydra waste it on a frivolity like fireworks?

_Red smoke, rising from the trees._ Tony wasn’t the only clever mind on the field, and if he could think of ways to signal distant troops, surely the Hydra could, as well. He blinked the afterimages of the fireworks from his eyes and turned, clutching at the wall and straining to see anything in the darkness.

It was hard to see anything, but it was even harder to hear, with the shouting and fireworks in the front of the castle, echoing.

Except that steely slither was _way too close_. A moment later, a half-dozen hissing sounds and soft clanks as grappling hooks came over the wall and lodged in the stone.

Tony stumbled back a step in shock, and stood frozen until the nearest of the hooks rattled a little and its line went taut, quivering under the weight of a climber. He jolted back to life and ran for the nearest guard tower. “Sound the alarm! Attack in the rear!”

He ducked, pried the nearest hook loose and sent it tumbling back over the wall, but there were far too many. Tony drew out the pistol Rhodey had given him and shot it into the air. “Attack!” he yelled again.

Someone grabbed his arm from behind, striking it against the wall until he was forced to drop the gun, lifted him and squeezed, hard, until Tony was breathless. “You are so _annoying_ ,” Rumlow said in his ear, harsh and angry. “Always where you ain’t supposed to be. I got him, I got him--”

Tony kicked and yelled with all the breath he had left in him. Tried to slam his heels into Rumlow’s shins, to throw his weight to the side. “Die, traitor!” he spat.

A sudden hush fell over the castle, the diversion at the front gate all but abandoned as soldiers raced toward the scalers.

“Rumlow!” Bucky bellowed. He was big as life in the courtyard, dressed in his hunter kilt and shirtless, chest gleaming in the torchlight. Shield strapped to his left hand, the flat of his claymore resting on his shoulder. “It’s me you want. Let Tony go, come down and face me.”

“Bucky--!” Tony got that much out before a hand clamped over his mouth. Tony struggled harder, but Rumlow’s grip was like iron.

Rumlow’s focus was on Bucky, though, his eyes narrow and his teeth bared in a silent snarl. “Hold this,” Rumlow snapped, shoving Tony at one of the Hydra scalers. “Don’t forget, Schmidt wants him alive.”

The man wrapped an arm around Tony’s throat, pulling his chin up and back with a handful of Tony’s hair. “I can snap your neck like a chicken,” he said, “and I don’t give a ruddy damn what that creep Schmidt wants.”

That was a lie, or Tony would already be dead. But he was powerless, now, unable to do anything but watch as Rumlow stripped off his jacket and made his way down to the courtyard.

***

There was the impulse to rush the attack, even as Rumlow made his way into the courtyard, a swaggering bastard, even with the fresh scars along his face, marring his once-rugged good looks.

“This is your only chance,” Bucky told him as he got closer. “Get back everything you lost. You know it, I know it. The clan is only as strong as its Buchanan. Take it from me, get everything you ever wanted.”

“You’re a fool, Buchanan,” Rumlow said. “Give me all the advantage and motivation to kill you-- and you know I won’t keep my word.”

“I kinda figured that was the case,” Bucky told him. “But I won’t lose.” Bucky absolutely could not afford to lose.

“And you know the fight won’t stop just because I’m dead,” Rumlow told him. He stopped just out of range of Bucky’s sword, hand on his own blade.

“It’s doubtful that Hydra has honor,” Bucky said. “I’d already learned that the hard way. Why-- why did you do it? You had _so much_ , how could it not be enough?”

“What would you know about having _enough_ , you always got everything, even when you didn’t deserve it, even when you didn’t earn it.”

That might even have been true; the lairdship wasn’t necessarily earned. Bucky had been born into it, but trained up for it, as well. It was the law, and maybe the law was wrong. But it didn’t change anything.

“Do you think Hydra will show you mercy, give you what you want, or do you think that, in the end, you’re just another life to be sacrificed?”

“There is no mercy in Hydra,” Rumlow said. “There is only order, and order comes from pain.”

Bucky dismissed that as the ravings of a lunatic, or a fanatic. “What do you know of pain?” Bucky twitched his artificial arm. “You think you can beat me, prove yourself strong enough to be Laird? What-- what do you know of pain?”

That last ended on a roar, and Rumlow charged him, shouting his battle cry. “Hail Hydra!”


	21. Chapter 21

The Hydra soldier holding Tony at least let him watch. Insisted on it, actually. “Ye’ll want to see when yer precious laird gets run through,” he said, fetid breath spilling over Tony’s neck.

“Go to hell,” Tony growled, but almost all of his attention was already on the fight.

Rumlow’s narrow sword looked laughable against Bucky’s massive claymore, but Tony knew well enough that it meant Rumlow would be faster, more nimble, more able to react.

He couldn’t even call out encouragement; he didn’t want to distract Bucky at a crucial moment. He had to settle for clenching his hands into fists and keeping his eyes fixed on the courtyard.

_If the fight goes on for more than three minutes, you’re doing something wrong,_ Bucky had said, but the fight appeared to drag on forever, the exchange of blows, the ringing sound of Rumlow’s sword against Bucky’s shield. Rumlow had his _sgian-dubh_ out as well, and Bucky was bleeding from a half dozen small cuts.

Bucky directed his swings at the injured side of Rumlow’s face, where it seemed his vision was impaired as well as shattering his good looks.

“Gonna wear ‘im down,” one of the scalers said.

And it did seem that Bucky was getting tired; his blows lacked the snap of vigor. Rumlow moved in, cut the strap that held Bucky’s shield in place and it spun away, useless.

“No!” Tony surged forward in protest, but the man holding him yanked him back.

“Won’t be long now,” the Hydra rebel said, laughing.

Rumlow unleashed a flurry of attacks toward Bucky’s right arm, practically beating his forearm aside. Blood flowed and Bucky staggered backward, a step, then two, then went to his knee. The claymore flew away, skating across the grass. Rumlow strode forward and kicked it even further. “You will die--”

With blood dripping from his fingertips, Bucky slid his hand into his sporran, pulling out-- one of Tony’s little clockworks? The bear was tiny, but recognizable even from this distance. He threw the piece into Rumlow’s face, where it promptly gave out its tiny little roar and battered at Rumlow’s nose with clockwork arms.

Rumlow startled, howled, and staggered back a step--

“You think to best me with a child’s toy?”

There was a smatter of laughter and crude remarks from the scalers that--

Almost covered the hiss and twang of bowstrings, the sizzle of multiple arrows in the air.

Hydra’s troops melted like snowmen in the sun. Some toppled backward off the wall, others fell where they stood as an entire forest of arrows tore through the ranks.

An arrow appeared over Tony’s shoulder, lodged in the man holding him. Tony yelped in surprise -- Christ, two inches to the side and it would’ve opened his throat! The rebel tensed and started to fall, and Tony had to struggle to throw off the arm still wrapped around his neck. He ducked free and then surged forward against the support wall, heart in his throat. _Bucky-_ -

Rumlow didn’t even pause as his men died, slashing at Bucky, who barely got his artificial arm up in time. Another blow, another block, but it couldn’t go on for much longer.

Rumlow changed his grip on his sword, stabbing instead of slashing.

Bucky lunged at the last second, catching the blade in the elbow joint of the artificial arm, which slid clean between the two segmented parts. He twisted, wrenching the sword out of Rumlow’s hand.

His turn brought him in close to Rumlow, like a perfect dance maneuver, Bucky’s back against Rumlow’s chest.

Bucky shouted defiance, wrenched his shoulder back, hard enough that Tony could hear the socket join crack even from his position--

He elbowed Rumlow in the face.

And then fell with him, as the blade jammed through Bucky’s elbow went straight into Rumlow’s eye.

They were locked together, and Rumlow kicked out his life with Bucky crushing him, stuck on his back like a turtle.

“Bucky,” Tony breathed. He dashed for the narrow stair down from the wall, hardly able to look away long enough to keep from tripping and falling. “Bucky!” He charged across the courtyard, fear and hope dueling in his throat, and skidded to his knees beside his husband.

“Well, that coulda been less awkwardly done,” Bucky said, struggling to either dislodge the sword from Rumlow’s skull, or the arm from his shoulder join. “Did it work?”

“He’s dead,” Tony confirmed, close to tears with relief. “Hold a moment.” He stood up, braced one foot against Rumlow’s face, then pulled the sword free in one long draw. He threw it to the side and bent to help Bucky up. “Come on, love, you should have those cuts seen to.”

“Where’s my bear?” Bucky wondered, poking around through the grass with one foot. “Can’t leave him out here, bastard’s saved my life twice now, at least.”

“I’ll make you a better one,” Tony said, but then he found it, the faintest gleam of torchlight reflecting from its metal hide. He scooped it up and handed it over. “I’ll have to fix him again. Bears aren’t meant to fly.”

“Nor are Scotsmen meant to betray one of their own, but a desperate situation calls for desperate measures,” Bucky said. He looked back at Rumlow’s corpse, the face mauled almost beyond recognition. “He stays here, buried in the clan’s plot. He was one of us, once, even if he forgot. The other Hydra, send ‘em over the walls to their friends, if they have any.”

Tony might have protested -- Rumlow had been only too eager to sacrifice the Clan to his own ambition -- but the man was dead; he couldn’t hurt them any longer. It didn’t matter where his body was laid. Tony nodded wearily, and tucked his arm around Bucky’s waist. “Rest now,” he insisted. “They’ll get on without us for an hour or two.”

“Aye, bonnie,” Bucky said. “Aye, that I will--” He kept his hand on Tony’s neck, thumb rubbing absently at hairline. “Come ye along with me, then?”

***

The siege, because it had finally turned into one, dragged on for another week or longer. Bucky honestly couldn’t tell. One battle blended into another, and then there were days of waiting. Double-checking the collapsed escape tunnel to make sure sappers weren’t digging away at it. Keeping a heavy guard during the night to guard against more scalers.

Hydra eventually decided to take advantage of the plentiful wood and started construction of a trebuchet, and that was worrisome. Their engineers were out of range, even for the Hawkeyes’ heavy constructed bows. Trebuchets took a while to build, but they were hell on walls, capable of flinging huge boulders with ease.

“Takes math to run one of those,” Becca scoffed, peering at the half constructed device with contempt, “and Hydra ain’t yet convinced me that they can so much as count.”

“Math,” Bucky mused. With that vague thought in mind, he went looking for Tony.

“Bonnie, how… how good is your math?”

Tony huffed. “I can count on my fingers _and_ my toes,” he quipped. “It’s pretty good, why?”

“Becca says aim of a catapult is a job for math,” Bucky said. He knew enough math to keep the crops in the field and to figure the tax and to pay the castle’s servants, budgeting the whole lot, which was more math than the average clansmen knew, but he didn’t know any math for targeting. “If you use your astrolabe, can you figure the math enough to smash that trebuchet before they get her done? We been holding our own well enough, but if they bring down the wall, the battle’s over except for the bleeding.”

Tony considered it for a minute. “Let me get the astrolabe, and we’ll see.” He ran into the castle. He was back, moments later, with a cloth-wrapped bundle. “Come on, might as well come with me while I take my measurements. That way I’ll be able to tell you right away if we can do it.”

“Good enough,” Bucky said, falling in at Tony’s side. He didn’t mention that if this didn’t work, he’d have to send men out on a suicide mission to take out the trebuchet. Tony knew it, as well as anyone.

If the trebuchet went down, then Hydra and the Buchanans would be in the age old battle: could the people outside the walls eat longer than the people inside the walls. Bucky had a team on that already, cataloguing the amount of food and supplies, so they’d know just how long the defenders could hold out.

“They’ve lost some of their daring,” Bucky commented. “Frankly, I’d rather they have bravery than wits. Bravery makes mistakes.” The army on the grounds outside the castle didn’t seem much diminished since they were first spotted. Maybe a fifth of their troops had been killed in the pitched battles. It wasn’t going to be enough.

Tony borrowed a spyglass from one of the watchmen and examined the crew building the trebuchet for a moment. “That one in the blue,” he said. “The short one. He’s the engineer. If this doesn’t work, he’s the one to target.” He handed the spyglass back to its owner, then leaned against the wall to steady his arm as he lowered his eye to be level with the astrolabe.

He sucked air through his teeth and muttered under his breath in incomprehensible half-sentences and nonsense words. After several long minutes, he straightened with a sigh. “We can do it,” he said. “Barely. Get three catapults aimed this way; if we miss on the first shot, we won’t have a chance to reload before they pull even further back, out of our range entirely. We’ll want to be loaded and ready to go as quickly as possible.”

“Get them ready at sunset,” Bucky said. “The light’ll be in their eyes while we move them. Fire first thing, as soon as there’s false dawn. They’ll be half asleep and hopefully not expecting it. If we can do this, it’ll make a shot worth the history books. Get ‘em ready. I’ll bring you dinner. And for the sake of my peace of mind, keep a shieldman with you all the time. I don’t need you catchin’ a stray arrow.”

“Yes, your grace,” Tony said, leaning in for a kiss. “And once we’ve routed Hydra, the leftover splinters will keep us in firewood for at least a month.”

Bucky got the crews in place to move the engines, set the kitchen to cooking dinner, and arranged for a brief sortee outside the walls-- race out on horseback, shoot at Hydra for a bit, and run right back in. A feint, to see how good they were at defending. And a distraction. Two could play at that game.

The sun was sinking, shining brilliant and orange in Hydra’s face when the last of the catapults was positioned.

“How’s she look?”

“Like a very small target in the middle of a great green field,” Tony said. He was sitting next to the center catapult, covering a piece of parchment with dense math. “We’ll want a heavier load to throw than gravel,” he added. “Scattershot is great against the troops, but if we’re smashing that monster, we’ll need to do more than just rain on it.”

“I’ve had a team on it. We’re bringing up some of the old cannons -- they were leaded shut back when the law came down, but they’re still solid. You think that’ll do you?”

Tony flashed a grin up at him. “Perfect.” He tapped at his page of calculations. “I need to know how much they weigh so I can adjust the tension. But we’ll have them loaded and ready to fire at dawn. This one first. That one--” He pointed to the one on his left. “--will be our second shot, if the first doesn’t do enough damage. And that one--” On the far end. “--will be aimed a bit farther out, in case we miss the first one and they start retreating on us.”

“You won’t miss,” Bucky told him. Less desperation than he thought, more confidence in Tony’s incredible brain. “I have faith.”

“Faith doesn’t make our shot fly true,” Tony said, amused. “Math does.”

“ _You_ have math,” Bucky said. The scribbles on Tony’s parchment might as well have been hieroglyphics for the sense they made to Bucky. “I have faith. In you.” He poked one finger in the middle of Tony’s forehead, then bent and kissed the spot. “Always have.”

***

Tony hadn’t slept. He’d spent the night working by torchlight, checking and double-checking and triple-checking his math and every little detail of the catapults. He had both Hawkeyes up to check the line of fire, even if they didn’t have the experience with catapults to confirm his range.

When the baker’s apprentice went in to start the oven fires, Tony found a cloth and wiped most of the dew off the cannons where they rested in the catapults’ cradles, unwilling to risk even that slight weight affecting his calculations.

The stars began to fade as the sky lightened. Tony chewed on his thumbnail and fixed his eyes on the field where the half-built trebuchet waited. He only needed to confirm that they hadn’t moved it during the night, and he’d be ready to fire.

“Got it,” Clint said, nodding out toward the field. “They haven’t so much as shifted it. But it’s nearly done.”

Tony grumbled. “They must have worked through the night, too. In the dark, no less.” He put his hand on the release catch and took a breath. “Right. Off we go, then.” He closed his eyes, whispered a prayer, and fired.

Out on the field, there were shouts of alarm, and the crews near the trebuchet attempted to scatter. Luck, the wind, or Sir Isaac Newton was with the clan, however. Tony’s math proved superior: the trebuchet did not merely crumple, but practically _exploded_. The wood was under so much tension already that it twisted itself into kindling and matchwood.

“Hold the second,” Becca shouted. No sense in wasting their ammunition -- even with the half dozen or more dead from the blast, they could construct another, unless they only had one engineer, who was now dead. No way to know, really.

“I’m going to teach you to fire a crossbow,” the Hawkeye told Tony. “You haven’t got the arm to draw my bow, but I bet with your ability to calculate, you could put a bird’s eye out at half a mile.”

Tony laughed shakily. “Only if it stays still long enough for me to do the calculations,” he said, but his knees were weak with relief, and he sagged against the wall. “But I’ll take you up on that.”

“Hawkeye,” Becca snapped. “ _Report--_ there’s something else going on out there and if I don’t know what it is, I’m sure I don’t like it.”

Clint went still, squinting out toward the wreck of machinery and the running, screaming men around it. He took in a breath, held it.

“Redcoats,” he said, finally. “The goddamn cavalry.”

“After we don’t need them anymore, of course,” Becca grumbled. “Who wants to bet they claim it as an English victory? No offense, Tony. I think of you as one of us.”

“Good,” Tony said. “For all I know, they’re here to arrest me for kidnapping Colonel Rhodes. In which case, I depend on you to rescue me.”

Bucky yelled up from the courtyard, waving both arms at Tony, the artificial one moving somewhat slower, but at least moving again. “Great shot!”

“Hydra’s breaking to run,” Clint reported, and it wasn’t more than another two hours before the entire brigade under Colonel Fury was lined up in front of the castle’s portcullis. “Ho the castle, are you planning to let us in, or what?”

Tony grinned at the familiar mask of irritation. “He’s trustworthy,” Tony told Becca. “More or less. Let him in.” He climbed to his feet and made a somewhat unsteady path down the wall.

“I see you’ve been going above and beyond, Mr. Stark,” Fury said as soon as he got inside, practically before he’d even dismounted. “I have men chasing the rabble, but I expect you’ve seen the last of Hydra. At least for a while. It’s like trying to exterminate rats. No one has succeeded in the history of history. They just breed more damn rats. Your Grace, I appreciate your hospitality.”

“I haven’t offered it yet,” Bucky said, scratching his chin. “What’s his Majesty’s army doing up this way?”

“Driving out the Hydra scourge.”

“Could have driven a little faster,” Bucky pointed out.

“Play nice, you two,” Tony chided. He grinned toothily at Fury. “I’m sure the good Colonel is going to recommend some tax relief for us this year, seeing as how we’ve had to muster to defend England from the advances of the Hydra rebellion.”

Fury snorted. “We’ll see,” he said, which was almost as good as a promise. “His Majesty does love his taxes. That said, now that the Hydra rebels are disbanded, and arrested -- we can hope there are no more hiding out in the hills -- his Majesty would care for some entertainment during the winter, and it is his hope that, should I find you both still alive, that you’d be so good as to join him for a few weeks around Christmas, to celebrate. Your mother and sisters, of course, are also welcome.”

Bucky shuffled his feet a little. “We’ll consider it,” Bucky said, which was also almost as good as a promise.

Tony rolled his eyes and let Fury see it, so that Fury would also know Bucky was actually agreeing. Not that they could _refuse_ , really, not if the King had sent for them.

“Captain,” he said to Becca, “will you see to Colonel Fury and his men? Find some space for the officers in the castle, find a good spot for the others to set up camp. Maybe they can take over Hydra’s bivouac. I’ve been up for... forty hours or so, and now that the crisis is past, I’m going to bed; I don’t care that it’s not even noon yet. And taking my husband with me.”

“I… uh, go where he tells me,” Bucky said, giving Fury an insolent sort of wave. “Thanks for the thrilling rescue. I’ll be sure to make a note of it in my report.”

Becca got Fury’s attention and went to attend to the logistics of housing another two hundred soldiers. “I already have a headache, just thinking about all this,” Bucky complained. “Let’s get you into bed before you fall down. Before _I_ fall down. Somebody’s gonna fall down, and I’d like a soft surface to do it on.”

“A soft surface sounds nice,” Tony said, leaning into Bucky’s side as they made their way into the keep. “Maybe a bath, too. But it’ll be nice to go to sleep together, and not have to expect we’ll be roused for an attack.”

“If the English decide at this point to keep the castle, I may just let them,” Bucky said, staggering up the stairs, leaning heavily against Tony to keep them both upright.

“Sure,” Tony agreed cheerfully. “You’ve already surrendered to one Englishman, after all.”

“And I will do so again, as many times as he likes,” Bucky said, shooting Tony a suggestive look from under his eyelashes, that was utterly ruined by a wide yawn. “As soon as we sleep.”

 


	22. Chapter 22

Tony tightened the bolt, then sat back on his heels to consider the pipes as he consulted his mental tally. The smith had called him mad for wanting so much piping, but Tony had just laughed and counted out his coin. This was only a proof of principle, of course; the pipes circled the great hall, the Captain’s quarters, and the Duke’s Chamber for now. Tony had already begun sketching out the plans to add similar improvements to the servants’ quarters.

After that, Tony planned to tackle Steve’s little cottage -- he would be bringing Peggy to live with him soon, and it would make a handsome wedding gift.

Assuming it all went as Tony had planned, of course. He patted the pipe, then opened the main tap, letting the water flow out of the big holding tank and down the pipes that Tony had spiraled through the main kitchen chimney, soaking up the heat there, and then out into the fitted rooms.

Tony had more ideas, too, about ways to bring water directly from the loch so the tank wouldn’t have to be refilled by hand, but for now, this would do.

He could already feel the heat radiating out of the pipes by his hand. He grinned, tucking his tools into their bucket, and made his way back to the Duke’s Chamber, where Bucky would be getting dressed.

“It works!” he announced happily, shutting the door behind him. “It’ll take a while for it to really be noticeable, but it works!”

“Oh, aye, bonnie,” Bucky said. He flexed his new arm as he stuffed it into the sleeve. It wasn’t quite as responsive as his original, but with some practice and the gears and cogs that aided movement, Bucky had a lot more use than he’d become accustomed to. “I’d believe you if you said you planned to make it summer all th’ time.” He let the shirt settle around his hips, reaching for his kilt.

“I’ll let you know if I figure that out. In the meantime, look -- a sort of by-product of the pipe heating.” He grabbed the water pitcher from its stand and found the release valve for the pipes, siphoning off some of the water. “Instant hot water. No waiting on buckets by the hearth.”

“Well, that should calm the fussing by the housekeeping staff about how ugly the pipes look. If they can do dishes, laundry, and take baths whenever it suits them, they’ll be less inclined to complain. About that, at any rate.”

“Mm, well, once I’m sure I won’t have to make any major changes to the system, we can work up some kind of grating to cover the pipes so they’re not so... bare looking. Your smith’s apprentice likes to dabble in scrollwork; it could be a project.”

“Well, use some of that hot water you’re making and clean your hands up, bonnie,” Bucky told him. “And-- you have a smudge, just there.” It was oddly close to the same thing Bucky’d said to him when they’d first met, so many years ago.

Tony paused to consider that, a smile tugging at his lips as he remembered that day. “Do you remember the first time you came to London?” he asked as he poured the hot water into the washbasin and reached for the lye soap.

“I do,” Bucky said. He fussed with the buckles on his kilt’s apron for a few minutes before getting them straight. “Your butler sent me out to th’ shop with a tea tray, and I puffed up like a toad, trying to impress you.”

“Did you?” Tony laughed. “Well, it worked, I suppose. I’ve loved you ever since.” He rinsed off his hands and turned to admire his husband. The kilt didn’t even look strange to him anymore, really.

“I did,” Bucky admitted. “Those first few years, every letter I wrote was with the intentions of you thinking I was most admirable and a worthy husband for you to have. I’d enough of Englishmen that thought Scots were nothing but brute animals, and I-- liked you. Which to me, was more important. I mean, I love my Aunt Georgette, but I don’t really _like_ her.”

“I’m glad,” Tony said. “I like you, too.” He slid his arms around Bucky’s waist and curled close, enjoying Bucky’s warmth and strength. “But truly, I was yours from the moment you admired that first little clockwork I’d made.”

“You always were a clever lad,” Bucky told him. “I am so lucky. So glad you’re here with me.”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

***

Bucky checked with his brother-in-law one last time to make sure everything was ready for the ceremony. Even if his brother-in-law was the parish priest, and Becca would have already checked things first thing in the morning, Bucky just felt better, for doing it himself. Fussing, as Tony would have said.

“You’re jittery,” Becca told him.

“I was _two_ when I went through this, myself,” Bucky said. “The most I remember about it was that the holy water smelled like herbs, and Ma had a sticky-toffee cake for me, after.”

“Shall I run down to the kitchen to order a sticky-toffee cake for you and your heir afterward, then?” Becca teased. “It’ll be fine, James. Tony’s foundling has a good head on her shoulders.”

“Do I ever say no to sticky-toffee?” Bucky wondered.

Rather than let his sister continue to make him feel like he was ten years old again, Bucky left the church. He could fuss over Riri just as easily as he could fuss over the church’s preparations.

He was sidelined from that when he encountered Steve walking Peggy to the church. Much to Steve’s delight and Peggy’s dismay, she’d grown so huge with pregnancy that she had trouble seeing her own feet, and it took her a while to move from one place to another.

After he inquired about Peggy’s health, and the construction of the nursery in the Rogers’ household, it was almost time for the service.

He rushed back to the sacristy where Tony and Riri were waiting.

Riri was in the clan tartan, bright and brilliant, and her hair was braided tight to her head. Tony was wearing his full formal kit from London -- he’d never converted all the way to the kilt, but his daily attire was trousers and a rough work shirt with a scarf in the clan’s colors -- and was absolutely breathtaking.

“You look _beautiful_ ,” Bucky said, and it wasn’t certain to whom he was addressing that remark.

Tony didn’t seem to have any doubt. “Yes, she does, rather,” he said proudly. He put an arm around Riri’s thin shoulders and hugged her gently. “You’ll be a credit to the Clan,” he promised.

Riri looked nervous despite Tony’s assurances. “What if they won’t have me? I’m not even out of the Barnes line.”

“They’ll have you, if I have to challenge every man Jack of them,” Bucky said. “Which will make my arm very tired, so I’d appreciate it if Tony’s speech is all ready to go?”

It was mostly form; the Laird and his consort would introduce the heir, give a little speech about their promise and skills, and the clan would vote by a show of Ayes.

Or the dead silence of a congregation would indicate a lack of faith in the prospective heir. Nerve-wracking, Bucky could well imagine. Especially for a child not born to the position. Tony had found Riri stealing bits of scrap from the smithy and discovered that she was, entirely on her own, re-inventing his heating-pipe system for her aunt’s cottage. He’d marched her straight to Bucky -- and demanded that they adopt her.

“They’ll have you,” Tony promised with a wink. “They even mostly accept _me_ , these days; you’re at least of the _Clan_. They’ll have you, and then we’ll have a lovely supper to celebrate. I heard there might even be sticky-toffee cake.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course the clan accepts you, Tony,” Bucky said. “Or should I say, Sir Anthony?” The King, it turned out, had been so impressed with Tony’s ingenuity with the catapults and help with stamping out the rebellion that he’d knighted Bucky’s husband. Tony had made it into the gentry on his own merits, and there were days when neither Bucky nor Tony could decide if that would have impressed or infuriated Howard more.

Tony smiled warmly at Bucky. “Of course they do, your grace. And so they’ll have no reason whatsoever to refuse Riri.” He gave the girl another squeeze, then released her, brushing wrinkles from his fine jacket. “Is it time for my speech, then?”

“Pretty soon,” Bucky said. “You’ll do well, Ri. I promise.”

A few minutes later, Becca stuck her head in the door. “They’re ready for you, now.”

“Here we go,” Bucky said, linking arms with Riri, who gave her other arm to Tony. They would face the clan and confirm Riri as Bucky’s heir as a family. “We’re in this together, aren’t we?”

“Together, my loves,” Tony agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end for The Laird and the Lad!
> 
> Next week, we'll begin posting Can't Talk (Like Real Adults), our reverse fake dating fic! What does "reverse fake dating" mean? STAY TUNED AND FIND OUT! :D


End file.
